In Loco Parentis
by hobgoblinn
Summary: A traitor. A rescue. What happens next? Snape finds himself once more a guardian of two very fragile children, and reflects on what it means to be a father. AU from HBP, age-regression, genfic.
1. Chapter 1

In Loco Parentis

Summary: A traitor. A rescue. What happens next? Snape finds himself once more a guardian of two very fragile children, and reflects on what it means to be a father. AU from HBP, age-regression, genfic. Not Severitus. FRT.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and noprofit is being made. Please sue somebody else.

_A/N:This is a WIP of which I have the first 6 sections drafted. I will try to update every week or two. I'm interested in seeing how my writing is affected by posting while in progress like this and, hopefully, getting feedback. I am still working on the sequel to "Lost Boys", but I'm going to wait until that one is a complete draft before I start posting it. The title, for those whose Latin is a bit rusty means "In Place of Parents" and is often used in a legal sense to indicate people, like teachers, who serve as guardians and protectors in lieu of absent parents.  
_

_Special thanks to research-girl and sahiya for beta work on this. Both of them saved me from myself more often than I can count. Any mistakes left are, of course, my own, and I blush to admit some canon impossibilities are, er, willful._

_A/N: Feb 6th 2008: I have revised this opening to make the "booby-trap" idea, and the reason they can't pop back to Hogwarts, make more sense. _

* * *

Hermione had always thought it would end like this: the three of them standing defiantly before Voldemort, full of what their unlamented former Potions Master had liked to call "foolhardy Gryffindor stupidity." What she hadn't expected was the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the lack of a wand in any of their hands, and the complete absence of a clever trick up her blood-encrusted sleeve. She hadn't truly expected them all to survive in the end, when she'd allowed herself to think of it at all. But she hadn't believed they would lose like this, either, after everything.

But if grim defiance was all they could pull from the situation, she'd certainly settle for that. Even if it meant proving Professor Snape right. He was probably here somewhere, come to think of it. She lifted her head with dignity and forced herself scan the circle of gleaming silver masks and black robes. She suppressed a shudder with difficulty. She knew now, in a way she hadn't before. They were all monsters. Like their master.

She forced her keen mind back to assessing their situation, wracking her brain to come up with-- anything. She was shaken and slightly bloodied, but ironically, this audience with Voldemort had put a stop to anything worse. Ron was leaning on her heavily, and she suspected he'd broken his ankle during his valiant, if doomed, rescue attempt. She hugged him to her side a little tighter, taking comfort in his solid, warm presence.

She glanced over at Harry. He was a bit the worse for wear, too, but standing tall and even looking slightly relaxed. Certainly not trembling the way she wanted to. She stifled a fond, but under the circumstances highly inappropriate, grin of pride, and took a deeper breath. He was apparently determined to go out in style, and for some reason that thought calmed her a bit. If nothing else, at least they were together.

"What I can't understand, Tom," he was saying just then, "is why anyone follows you to begin with. Killing women and children-- yeah, that's noble. You target Muggles and purebloods alike, you're only a half-blood yourself, a little baby very nearly killed you..."

"Silence!" Voldemort extended his wand, his eyes glittering with rage.

Harry eyed him coolly for a moment, then said, "Unlike you, I'm not afraid to die. You really don't get it, do you? Endless life without love-- it's just endless. Pointless. That's you. I'll pass, thanks."

"I shall kill you slowly, as I should have years ago," snarled the Dark Lord. "In fact..."

He hissed something-- in Parseltongue, Hermione thought-- and a blue light shot from the wand. In the next moment, where a brave young man had been standing, a little boy, barely a toddler, tumbled over backwards on his bottom, swimming in robes absurdly too large for him.

"Harry!" Without pausing to think, Hermione rushed to snatch the child up into her arms. Ron limped forward and put a protective arm around them both. Hermione, still devoting a portion of her mind to finding some way out of this mess, had a sudden, mad thought. How had Harry's mother saved him, all those years ago? Was it blood alone, or would any sacrifice, made wholeheartedly for the sake of love and friendship, be enough?

It was all she had, and she was just gathering herself to try, when she heard Ron's voice rasp, "Harry's right. You really are a pathetic old git."

Voldemort raised his wand again, and there was no way he could miss. She pushed Harry into Ron's arms and moved to shield them both. She, at least, was going to die. And she was surprised to find herself strangely calm about it.

At that moment, she caught a blur of black out of the corner of her eye. She felt the pressure of a hand slapping her shoulder, then a dizzying darkness and rush of wind, then...

They were standing in the sitting room of what appeared to be an abandoned house. Moonlight streamed through large windows to illuminate furnishings draped in white sheets, and there was at least a half inch of dust on the floor. "Whoa," she heard Ron say shakily. "That was close. And who the hell are you?"

The Death Eater stepped back from them, pulling off its mask and unfastening its outer robe, frantically rifling through its pockets. Hermione gasped as she recognized the dour, angular face.

"Professor Snape?" The calm that had enveloped her moments before was shattered, as much from realizing she had not, in fact, been killed, as from seeing this man again. He had killed Dumbledore less than a month ago, and apparently fled back to his true Master. Except, something about the whole situation had never added up...

"He told you to do it, didn't he?" she breathed, as the light suddenly dawned and her heartbeat began to slow to normal. The flicker in the man's dark eyes told her all she needed to know. He carefully avoided looking at them as he pulled a handkerchief-wrapped object from an inner pocket of his robes.

Ron cradled Harry protectively in his arms and backed up as well as he could, given his injury. "What are you playing at, Snape?" he asked bitterly. "Found some new Master to betray us to?"

Snape paused, then said simply, "The Headmaster chose both the manner and instrument of his death. Believe what you will, but you two need to take this now and go, before they find us. Give me the boy."

"Are you mental?" Ron yelped. "You think I'll just let you have Harry, after everything you've done? Thanks for saving us, if you have, but you have _got_ to be kidding me."

Hermione was looking curiously at the object Snape was was holding out to them. "What's that?"

With exaggerated patience, he replied, "It is a portkey, Miss Granger. As I cannot apparate all three of you and myself any further tonight, this will send you and Mister Weasley safely back to Hogwarts. But I would appreciate it if you would utilize it before my little Confundus charm wears off and they track us to this place."

He thrust the handkerchief at Ron and continued, "Tell Minerva, or whomever in the Order you can reach, what has occurred. I will take Potter and apparate a few more times to throw them off the scent, then go to ground for a bit until..." He trailed off and blinked, and Hermione knew in that instant that he had no more idea what to do beyond that than she did.

She glanced over at Ron and noticed how pale his face was, and how he was starting to shake a bit as his injuries and the exertions of the night began to catch up to him. "Here, Ron, let me take him before you fall over." He reluctantly relinquished his hold on his best friend to her, took the object Snape was extending toward him, and sank weakly down to the floor as she turned to face Snape.

"Come, Miss Granger, give me the boy," he said imperiously. "We do not have time to debate this."

She stepped back, out of reach of both her companions and said, in what she felt was a perfectly reasonable tone, "What do you know about caring for infants, Professor?"

Snape gave a pained grimace. "Oh dear Merlin. Read all about it, have you, Miss Granger?"

"I'll tell you what I _have_ read about, sir. I've read that side-along apparition can be very dangerous when attempted repeatedly, and even more so when the caster is physically ill or exhausted." Even in the moonlight, the sheen of sweat on his face and the pallor of his complexion were apparent to her, as was the fact that since she had seen him last he had lost weight he could ill-afford to lose.

"I've also read," she continued, a little more gently, "that if a companion of the caster consents to allow his or her magical energy to be tapped for the purpose, the procedure can be made much safer. Since I am not about to let you go off alone with any child, much less this one, I so consent. Besides, given your current condition, I'm frankly shocked you didn't splinch us jumping this far under just your own power. You're going to need my help."

The look Snape fixed on her made Hermione feel as if she were something particularly loathsome suspended in a jar of preserving solution. "And how's your medical history, Miss Granger? Up to date on all your vaccinations? Muggle and Wizarding?"

Hermione gave him a puzzled look, then turned her eyes to the child in her arms. "You don't think..."

Snape sighed. "I suspect. The Dark Lord has been working on this curse for some time. He has never used it in other than carefully controlled circumstances precisely because it carries a side-effect with the potential to decimate the Wizarding World. If the victim contracts a childhood illness, caregivers are at higher risk for infection. And magical remedies are largely ineffectual."

Hermione felt her heart drop into the cold pit of her stomach. "Like the 1918 Influenza Epidemic?"

"It would be worse than that. But yes."

Hermione took a deep shuddering breath. "I am indeed up to date on all my shots, sir. And I have had chicken pox-- well, dragon pox is the same thing. What about..."

"I have taken all relevant precautions, myself. As the one charged with studying the curse's effects."

He seemed to be waiting for her to make some reaction to that, but Hermione kept her face still. After glaring at her for a long moment, Snape sighed. "All right, let's--"

"No, wait, not all right," Ron protested. "Why don't I take Harry with me to Hogwarts? Or why don't all of us use the portkey and get out of here?"

Snape rounded on him with a vicious expression, and Hermione wondered if he welcomed the chance to vent a little spleen after the uncomfortable admissions he'd just made. "Have you even been _listening_, Mister Weasley?"

Ron sat up straighter and glared back up at him. "Yeah. A Death Eater who's been experimenting on people for _fun_ wants to take my best friends Merlin knows where. A Death Eater who killed Albus Dumbledore in cold blood. A Death Eater who probably is making all this up because he knows they'll lock you up in Azkaban if you ever show your face at Hogwarts again..."

Snape had his wand out now and was kneeling in front of Ron, his face contorted with barely controlled rage. "There was nothing_ fun_ about it," he spat. "You ignorant little..."

"Stop it!" Both of them turned to look at Hermione, equally startled by the command in her tone. She continued, a little more calmly, "Ron. He saved our lives just now. He didn't have to. If we don't get going quickly, we'll all be dead. We have to trust each other."

Snape looked challengingly at Ron. After a moment, Ron broke eye contact and nodded. "Yeah. Sorry. So erm, what now?"

Hermione saw Snape's eye flick to Harry, still unnaturally quiet, watching solemnly from her arms, his overlarge glasses slightly askew. "We can't risk bringing Potter back to the School, much less the heart of the Order. The two of you, however, would be much safer--"

"No way. Hermione's right, Professor," Ron interrupted. "Taking care of a kid isn't like bullying a potions class." He blanched a little then, as if he'd just realized what he'd said. With a sheepish look that completely avoided the dark eyes glaring a hole through his chest, Ron continued, "And even if I wasn't kind of useless at the moment, I know I'd be hopeless at it. But between the two of you, you should do all right." Hermione recognized the tone as an olive branch of sorts, and she wondered if Snape would see it as such. There was a long pause as Snape studied the two of them, his face having retreated from murderously hostile to merely inscrutable.

Finally, he replied coldly, "Thank you for that heartwarming vote of confidence Mister Weasley. Now then. After you have informed Minerva about what has ocurred here, I would appreciate it if you would ask her to secure my effects from my new office. I suspect I will not be using it, after all. I am sure that will please her immensely."

Ron unwrapped the portkey carefully, then hesitated. He glanced up and met Snape's eyes. "Um... well. All right."

Snape surprised Hermione then by extending an olive branch of his own. "Good luck. Oh, and Mister Weasley? I saw what you did, back there in the glade. I must ask you, did you have a plan at all, or were you merely firing random spells?"

Ron glowered a little, but there was a glimmer of humor in his eyes. "If that second group hadn't come up behind me right then, I would have been fine. I'd like to see _you_ defend four on one."

Snape looked almost amused himself. "I have, Mister Weasley. Rather frequently. Nonetheless, it was not... as hopeless a display of incompetence as I have grown to expect from you."

Hermione suppressed a grin as Ron blinked at him for a moment, stunned by what was, from Snape, almost a compliment. Then he turned back to her. "'Mione," he began, but she knelt down and kissed him soundly before he could say anything else.

"I saw what you did in the glade too, Ronald. You idiot." She smiled, trying hard not to tear up in front of her friend. "You were brilliant. Don't ever scare me like that again. Be safe."

Ron, still a little stunned from the kiss, grinned faintly. "You too. All of you." She stepped back and Ron grasped the portkey with his bare hand. He vanished.

Snape sniffed, but he surprised Hermione by making no other overt comment on her method of bidding Ron farewell. "We'd best be on our way as well, Miss Granger." He joined her and awkwardly slipped his arm around her. She saw Harry watch his approach, then yawn and rest his cheek against her shoulder and close tired eyes. Hermione slipped his too-large glasses off his face and tucked them carefully into a pocket of her robes. "Relax, Miss Granger," Snape instructed quietly, perhaps so as not to disturb Harry. "I'll try to take as little of your energy as I can."

She nodded her understanding, and in the next moment, they, too, vanished.

* * *

They made three more jumps: to a windswept hillside by the sea, then a shabby sitting room with books lining the walls and a cold fireplace at one end, then a small, weed-choked cemetery. They remained just long enough at the first two for Snape to cast some nonverbal spell she couldn't quite follow, though it seemed to have something in common with the Patronus Charm, sending a wispy greenish mist that coalesced into human-like shapes, then vanished, before they were on their way again. She felt Snape pulling more energy from her with each jump, and after the last, she was trembling with nausea and breathing hard, as if she had just run all the distance herself. Snape helped her to a stone bench, where she sat gratefully. "Rest," he panted, looking quite worn out himself. "They are sure to look for us here eventually, but..."

He trailed off and she followed his gaze across the cemetery to a particular stone, not far from where she sat. She read the names: James and Lily Potter. She glanced back at him and was surprised at what she saw. His face, usually so closed and forbidding, now reflected the closest thing she ever seen to an honest emotion which was not hate or rage. He looked very old, and tired, and -- bereft.

He moved forward and placed his robe and mask on the grave, then incinerated them with a savage flick of his wand. As the afterimage of the sudden flash began to fade from her eyes, she saw him sink to the grass, drawing his long legs up to his chest. She cleared her throat hesitantly. "What are we going to do now, Professor?"

He shook his head. "Hopefully they'll believe we apparated across the Channel first, then when that lead grows cold, they will think we used the floo at Spinner's End to go to London. By the time they get here, they will find we went up the street to a certain house, or what's left of it, which He knows quite well. There's a residual magic there that should mask our final destination."

He paused, then admitted, "It would be helpful if I had any idea at all what that should be."

Hermione felt the sleeping boy stir in her arms and hugged him a little closer. _Somewhere Harry would be safe while they sorted out what had been done to him. _ She mulled it over. Then she remembered her impulse earlier, how she'd wanted to protect Harry, as his mum had.

"What about his awful relatives? Didn't Professor Dumbledore..." her voice caught a little on his name, but she pressed on quickly, "...didn't he make Harry stay with them because there was some protection passed on through his mother's family?"

Snape looked up at her appraisingly. "Through his mother's _blood_," he corrected. "And yes. We might be safe enough if we kept to the house proper. Albus described the wards there at length to me, the few times I attempted to--" He stopped himself and shook his head.

"It doesn't matter," he continued, after a moment. "The only difficulty is that the Dark Lord will certainly expect us to go there. He might be there already, waiting for us." He rose, then crossed the short distance between them and offered her a hand up. "Still, as I have no better ideas, we'd best make our way out of here, at once."

"But, what about them? What if he infects them?"

Snape's smile was not at all pleasant. "I would say, Miss Granger, that if any people deserve to contract a wasting and debilitating series of illnesses, they do."

Hermione frowned, unconvinced. Snape added as they rose, "There are precautions we can take. If nothing else, we can limit any effects by keeping the entire household under quarrantine. It would be dangerous for them to leave the wards now in any event."

He kept an unobtrusive steadying hand on her arm as they made their way to the cemetery gate and the lane beyond. Hermione gasped as a ruined house came into view. Standing with Snape in the doorway a few moments later, she watched him cast his last misdirection spell, saw how an eerie greenish light from the house mixed with the glowing wisps of smoke to strengthen the charm. Then he pulled her close, almost into an embrace, and they disapparated one last time.


	2. Chapter 2

In Loco Parentis 2/?

_FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome._

_DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else._

_A/N: Thanks again to research-girl and sahiya for fantastic beta work. _

* * *

They reappeared in a darkened hallway. Hermione strained her ears, but she could make out no sound in the house but their own ragged breathing. Snape cast a dim _lumos_ and motioned her with his wand into the sitting room through an open doorway on their left.

"They may be heavy sleepers," he murmured, casting a spell to light the lamps. As the lamps flared, Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust at the grotesquely elaborate floral pattern of the sofa. She was surprised when Snape abruptly transfigured one of a pair of particularly ugly wing back chairs into a rough but serviceable cot. He was turning to do something to the sofa, when Hermione stopped him with a touch on his arm.

"I'll be fine there, or in one of the chairs, sir. Don't exhaust yourself further on my account." She unwrapped Harry from the tangle of his robes, then said, "Professor, could I borrow your wand for a moment?"

He stared blankly at her. She flushed a bit, realizing belatedly that it _was_ a rather impertinent request. "Oh--I mean, I want to transfigure some of his clothes into nappies and a blanket." He hesitated, then handed the wand over without a word, and soon Harry was sleeping in the kind of muggle nappies and footie pajamas Hermione had often seen on her infant cousins. His robe was quickly transformed into a soft blanket, though it was still black-- she was getting too tired to attend to all the details involved in creating a real baby blanket. She covered him up, then turned to find Snape was commandeering the other straight backed chair, pulling an ottoman over to prop up his feet. She turned to consider the sofa. As she did so, she heard Snape clear his throat behind her.

"My wand, Miss Granger, if you please." She glanced down and realized it was still in her hand. With a blush she handed it back to him. Then she collapsed on the sofa, heedless of the mud and filth still clinging to her robes. Just before she drifted off, she thought she heard Snape's footsteps on the stairs. She briefly considered getting up to join him in exploring the house, but at that point the night's exertions finally caught up with her, and she knew nothing more.

* * *

Severus Snape had already determined, in the first few minutes they'd been in the house, that they were alone. He confirmed it as he prowled through the upstairs rooms, judging from the faintly lingering scents of perfume, soap and aftershave that the house's occupants had been gone a day or two at most. His eyes gathered in every clue about this so-called family of Potter's.

Petunia he had known as a child, a jealous and insecure girl, clinging viciously to propriety and order above all else. The man she had married was an unimaginative bigot who hated magic almost as much as she did, and their son-- well. He'd seen them all countless times in those ill-conceived Occlumency lessons with Potter, and the small details he noted as he passed from room to room served only to confirm his impressions.

He paused outside a door with numerous locks fitted to the outside, and an odd flap cut into the bottom of it. He stared at it, unblinking, for a long time.

He knew, of course, that this had been Potter's room. He'd never seen it from this side in the boy's memories, had never until this moment been able to bring himself to believe that he'd really been unable to leave the room at will, underage magic restrictions or no. He finally shook off his disbelief and turned the door handle to view the spartan bedroom.

The bed had no blankets, not even a fitted sheet. The bare mattress had a thin pillow, similarly bare. A quick search of the dresser and wardrobe yielded a small selection of clothing, doubtless handed down from the overlarge cousin. He pulled out a few items in better condition than the rest and cast quick shrinking charms on them, some in Potter's current size, others closer to Miss Granger's. He had no doubt after the night she'd had, Miss Granger in particular would desire clean clothing, not to mention a long shower, come morning.

He pushed the thought of his young charges' sufferings aside firmly, quelling with equal vigor the unaccustomed sympathy that threatened to rise in his cold heart. He was no longer a spy, but he was an old soldier, and a survivor, and he most emphatically was not going to start getting emotional or sentimental _now_, after everything.

He turned his consideration to the wards protecting the house. He could almost see the magic Dumbledore had woven into the very bricks and boards, all those years ago. He adjusted the flow of magic here and there slightly. It was amazing, this barrier that protected Potter, and by extension, Miss Granger and himself, from the evils of the outside world. Though the design had been Dumbledore's the greater part of the magic that governed it had come from Lily, and he felt her presence now very strongly. He strengthened the concealment charms a bit, and those that would project false images if anyone tried to spy out this location. He added an anti-apparition ward of his own design, weaving it into the magic already present. And when he finished, he felt a strong connection to the witch and wizard whose magic was now mingled with his own in these walls. Connection, then shame, as he remembered that both of them were dead, by his actions, if not both by his hand.

He pushed aside the emotions that threatened to well up then and returned to the living room after a brief circuit through the kitchen. Miss Granger was sleeping the sleep of the righteous, thoroughly exhausted, no doubt, by whatever foolhardy heroics she and her friends had got up to earlier in the evening. At least, he hoped it had only been that evening. He hadn't heard of their capture at all until he'd seen them in the glade making their idiotic escape attempt, but he knew that did not necessarily mean anything. The Dark Lord was well accustomed to withholding information from his followers, if for no other reason than he enjoyed the petty intrigues and jealousies it fostered in the ranks. He tried very hard not to think on what might have befallen the Golden Trio if they had been prisoners for a more extended period of time.

The boy was sleeping too, thumb in his mouth. He considered them both for a time as he stood there. His lip curled at the irony of it, that he, the right hand deputy of the Dark Lord, Scourge of the Wizarding World should be reduced, quite literally, to babysitting. He knew he would eventually regret the loss of his position and the opportunities it had afforded him to avert the worst of the Dark Lord's excesses. But he couldn't be truly sorry, just now, that his double life as a spy was finally at an end. He'd committed unspeakable atrocities playing that role. And he'd killed the only man who had ever been anything like a friend to him for the sake of it. It was almost a relief to know that from this point on, he could fight openly for the Order. Even if they failed to accept him as an ally, it didn't much matter. He hardly expected to survive long now, in any event.

A small sound caught his attention as he stood there-- a whimper. Potter. He lay there in the cot, curled in on himself, trying hard to make no sound. Snape approached the cot slowly, hesitating for a few moments as the boy's breathing grew ever more ragged. Then he reached down and picked him up carefully, awkwardly.

He'd never held a baby before, and the experience was distinctly unsettling. Not only because of the physical contact-- he had always loathed being touched-- but because he felt so very ignorant and inadequate. Even though Granger was not currently in a position to aid him, he found himself glad now that she was here, for he had not truly appreciated until this moment, how little he knew, even theoretically, about caring for an infant.

Just now, though, all Potter seemed to need was strong arms to hold him, and a shoulder upon which to drool. With a martyr's sigh Snape carried the boy to his chair and settled himself carefully, trying hard to distance himself from the uncomfortable emotions rising in his breast.

He had read that the helplessness of infants triggered an automatic response in adults of the species, making them wish to protect and nurture and love the horrible little creatures, who otherwise would be abandoned to their fate the first time they cried or puked or soiled themselves. But reading and experience were two very different things. Feeling the weight of the boy against his chest now, he felt a very different kind of weight. Responsibility. Not the abstract responsibility he had felt as a teacher. This was intense and personal, and it comprised more than physical safety. He felt a curious desire to live up to the trust this boy was placing in him, sleeping in his arms like this. He wondered if natural parents felt something similar. If Lily had felt this, too.

He found his thoughts returning to the girl who had been his friend, all those years ago. Who had quite possibly held her son, much like this, on the last night of her life. A life ended as a direct result of his actions. He hadn't betrayed their location-- his information to Dumbledore had in fact sent them into a hiding place that could never have been breached, had it not been for Pettigrew's betrayal. But he had never been able to shake his guilt, his feeling that he should have done something more to save them. To save her.

His lips twisted in an angry grimace, and he pushed the maudlin thoughts roughly aside, reciting tables of potions ingredients and their uses: dragon's blood, hellebore, bloodroot, aconite. He was just starting to achieve a state of disconnected, relaxed alertness, when suddenly, he found himself no longer sitting in the dimly lit room.

He was standing in a graveyard, ankle wrenched horribly. He heard an oddly familiar voice say, "Kill the spare." A green light flashed and Cedric Diggory lay sprawled on the cold, damp earth, eyes open but unseeing.

The scene changed. He was standing in a large chamber, watching in disbelieving horror as a red burst of light struck Sirus Black in the chest and he fell backwards, through a strange doorway. Curtains of mist hid his body from view, but sibilant whispers grew louder and louder in his ears, though they formed no recognizable words.

The scene shifted again. He was on the top of the Astronomy Tower. Two men faced each other, one an old man, weak and wandless, the other standing as if frozen, staring coldly into those blue eyes. "Severus... please...," he heard the old man whisper. Then he saw his own face, contorted with rage and hate, as he cast the Killing Curse.

This was one of his own nightmares, though he had never seen it from an observer's perspective. Nonetheless, the familiarity of the emotions the scene stirred up brought him back to himself. This was a dream, surely. Just not his own. A faint nausea swept through him as he realized its source. Potter. A child of some fifteen months, having nightmares of events no boy of any age should ever have seen, much less experienced firsthand.

The realization helped him to focus on the child now trembling in his arms. Snape shifted his mental patterns to maintain contact with the child's dream state, but he also began to subtly influence it, to move it back to safer territory. He started by making his presence known, so the boy would at least know he was not alone. "Potter."

The scene shifted again and he found himself in a small, enclosed space. Dim light filtered through slats in the door, and glancing down he could make out a dirty t-shirt, the clenched fists of a small boy no older than four. He could feel the child's desperation. It was terribly important that he not make any noises _they_ could hear. Snape called the boy's name again in a quiet whisper. At first the dreamer started in barely contained panic, but when the sound did not attract any attention, he saw the child relax.

Snape continued, "This is a dream, boy. None of it is real. Nothing here can harm you." He felt the child's disbelief-- things hurt him here quite often. He tried again, putting assurance behind the emotions of the words. "I will protect you. Stay close to me. Follow my voice."

Slowly, he drew the frightened child out of the darkness, into the dream mirror of the hallway where they had first come into the house. He led the dreaming child on into the sitting room, until the boy was conscious again of being held protectively in an adult's arms. Snape caught a faint sadness, as if adults, in this boy's experience, didn't do such things, hadn't since before he could remember. And another emotion, as well. Mistrust and confusion, as if the infant could not quite process the deep, long-standing hatred for his protector.

Snape smiled grimly. "Quite all right, boy," he whispered in the child's mind. "I wouldn't trust me, either. Go back to sleep."


	3. Chapter 3

In Loco Parentis 3/?

_FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome._

_DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else._

_A/N: Thanks as always to research-girl and sahiya for beta magic. Please note that Part 1 has been significantly altered from the original to make the reason they can't just pop back to Hogwarts with Harry make a bit more sense. Thanks to all who reviewed questioning that, or anything else. Thanks also to the denizens of the Yahoo group loose (underbar) canon for the invaluable information I've gleaned from their discussions, and for their gracious replies to my questions. Also, note a slight change 3-26-08: Snape does not yet know about horcruxes.  
_

* * *

Snape had sworn to himself he would not doze off, but the previous night's exertions had pushed his long-neglected body past its sleep deprivation limit. So when he woke, stiff and sore from falling asleep in the chair, he was also in an exceedingly foul mood, even by his standards. Morning had come, much to his pessimistic surprise. He hadn't entirely counted on their surviving the night, wards or no. Which made him even more angry with himself, for letting his guard down. The sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains into his eyes did nothing to improve his mood.

And then there was another irritation-- Potter. Still cradled against his chest, seeming oddly content-- safe. Something the boy likely hadn't felt since his parents' deaths. Fighting down a surge of something suspiciously close to pity, he regained his bitter equilibrium when he realized the boy was also, quite probably, drooling on his professor's shoulder.

He wasn't sure which bothered him more-- the pathetic neediness of the child, or the drool.

The weight against him was a tangible reminder of his responsibility for these two children in his care. Children? He grimaced as he glanced over at Miss Granger, still unconscious on the sofa. She was of age by Wizarding standards, and very nearly by Muggle ones, as well. But when he looked at her, he couldn't help seeing the 11 year old bushy-haired know-it-all who had been one of the banes of his existence since her first Potions class.

He found it odd now, to be relying on her as a source of child-rearing wisdom, when she doubtless knew as little about the matter as he did.

What did children need, though? He'd never considered it from the point of view of a prospective parent. On the contrary, he had never been sorry that the Snape line would die with him, and there were days when he thought its ending could not come soon enough. He had no direct experience with small children, and his own upbringing was, at best, a sort of negative example. But surely he could reason it out. He'd done that before, at the beginning of his teaching career. He'd spent a considerable time that summer wondering how someone so emotionally stunted and horrible as himself could work effectively with children, first as a teacher and, later, as a Head of House.

Back then, he'd approached it much like a Potions experiment. What worked, what didn't? He found harsh discipline worked much better than kindness, especially given that he'd still been a student when his first crop of advanced Potions pupils had been starting at Hogwarts. Just as well, really, since kindness wasn't something that came naturally for him. So some bullying was a given, even if he had sometimes cringed at first to hear his own father's words escaping his lips.

He'd also cultivated certain mannerisms and facial expressions designed to strike fear into the hearts of his little miscreants. He didn't realize until later how much he'd been borrowing from Dark Lord and the higher-ranking Death Eaters. But it worked, as he could well attest. Nothing like a bit of sheer terror to motivate a child to quiet, instant obedience. That, and hard labor for punishment, in the form of scouring cauldrons or preparing particularly loathsome potions ingredients.

And he'd sought out information and opinions from others. Some of this had been thrust at him, in the form of well-meaning advice and books lent to him by his former professors and new colleagues. A good deal of that had been nothing more than meddlesome interference, and he had been able to dismiss it out of hand. Argus Filch, however, had been a veritable font of wisdom. While a little bloodthirsty, his ideas had mirrored Snape's own. And Snape found that Filch's experiences as a Squib had given him some self defense mechanisms that worked just as well for a new teacher almost as young as his students.

But he sensed that none of his old knowledge and experience was going to avail him now. Already, he was holding a child in his arms, certainly something he had never done before in his capacity as teacher or Head. He'd sometimes recognized the need for it, as when he had told a child of a death in the family or some similar tragedy. But he'd always taken care to have a Prefect or older student there to offer the comfort and consolation he could not.

Well, Granger was here now. She could not have helped last night with the dreams, even had she been awake. He suspected that she was going to need as much from him, in her own way, as the boy seemed to. He couldn't rely on her completely. But he did not know quite how to relate to her now.

She began to stir then, and Snape decided for the moment to just pretend they were still in his classroom. It amused him a little to see how she stiffened as she caught sight of him, then forced herself to relax as his part in the events of the night came back to her. He gave a curt nod in her direction as she sat up. Then he took refuge in the cold, supercilious voice that had got him through many a potions lesson over the years.

"It would appear, Miss Granger, that Potter's execrable relations are away from home at present. I would suggest you avail yourself of their bathing facilities before they return-- you are a disgrace to your House, even if it is Gryffindor. I've taken the liberty of adjusting the size of some of Potter's clean clothes in his room upstairs; after you bathe, I will allow you to demonstrate your keen understanding of the procedure for cleaning and dressing an infant. And then we will see about breakfast."

Her eyes were still a little glassy. Damn. What did the Muggles call it? Post-traumatic stress? He'd been right-- he would soon have the joy of caring for not one, but two very fragile young people. He was in no way equipped for it, but at the moment, there really was no one else. He breathed a sigh of relief when she nodded hesitantly, then rose with that determined, driven look he had grown to hate over her years at school.

"Yes, Professor," she said, giving him a sharp look as she suddenly noticed that he was holding a _baby_ in his arms. Potter.

"Potter's sleep was a bit disturbed," he said shortly. It was the only explanation he planned to make, so he hoped it met with her approval.

She nodded slowly, still looking uncertainly at him. "Of course, sir," she said. Then she turned back to the door and peered out into the hallway.

"Upstairs," Snape said. "Second door on the left. Potter's room is next to it-- the door is open." He hoped she would fail to observe the locks, but he was fairly sure that once she'd showered and woken up a bit more, there were very few things at all Miss Granger would miss.

* * *

Potter woke soon after. Snape, absorbed in his thoughts, did not notice immediately. But when the boy stirred in his arms, he glanced down into bright eyes shining with…. A lump formed in his throat. It had been a very long time since anyone had looked at him with—what? Trust? No, Dumbledore had trusted him, even in his last moments. No, this was more—joy. Delight. Impossible as it was to believe. But here in his arms, the son of his old enemy and older friend was smiling up at him, all the lingering mistrust he'd felt last night apparently gone. Snape shook his head in wonder, that this child could give so freely, when he knew all the memories of their former relationship and his own crimes were still lingering beneath the surface.

The boy burbled something unintelligible at him then, seeming expectant of an answer. Snape grunted something noncommittal in reply and shifted his weight to stand with this unaccustomed burden in his arms. After carrying him into the kitchen and setting the boy down, he quickly found that this smaller version of the Boy Who Lived was, if anything, more determined to get himself killed than his 16 year old counterpart. There were a few near misses involving electrical cords and falling appliances, bottles of cleaner beneath the sink, and various dangerous objects pulled from low drawers, until Snape cast a spell designed to keep the boy at a safe distance from the cords and cabinets. He picked up an ugly china knick knack and transfigured it into a large plastic ring of the sort he seemed to recall small children playing with.

Snape was still scowling down at an absolutely unrepentant toddler when he heard Hermione's footsteps on the stairs. "You know, Potter," he drawled, "I didn't realize your death wish had manifested quite so early." Snape handed the ring to the boy, studiously trying to ignore the girl watching them from the doorway with thinly veiled amusement.

When he did look up as she came past him, he was glad to see that she looked a good deal more herself-- her eyes were much more alert, less haunted. She was struggling to pull a hairbrush through her rat's nest of bushy hair. His expression must have been up to par, though, because she averted her eyes and wiped the beginnings of the smile from her face at once. Focusing on her impossibly tangled hair, she began struggling again with the brush. Then she burst out, "You wouldn't know a spell that could chop all this off, would you, sir?"

He was turning to open the refrigerator, but he paused to give her a quelling look. "I know a good many perfectly useless spells, Miss Granger. And if you ever tell anyone I did this one, I shall have your liver on a spit." He cast a spell then, not to cut her hair, but to detangle it for her, with a negligent wave of his wand.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she finished brushing out her hair easily and tying it back into a wet ponytail, murmuring a "thank you" without meeting his gaze. Snape enjoyed a brief moment of amusement before returning to the matter at hand. Breakfast. Potter's cleanliness could wait, he had decided. The boy sat on the floor watching them both and contentedly gnawing on the plastic ring.

"I believe the occupants of this house have not been gone long," he ventured, examining the contents of the refrigerator. "The milk and eggs seem fresh enough. We are in no immediate danger of starvation, at least."

"That's good," the girl replied. Snape glanced up and gave her a sharp look. Something in her tone was off. Oddly distant. He watched her cross the kitchen and examine the coffeemaker. He pulled the canister of ground coffee from the refrigerator and held it out to her. She took it without a word, gave him a questioning look which he answered with a nod, and began measuring out the grounds and water for them both.

What should he say? Snape hated it, that he wasn't sure. He was well accustomed to being thrust into situations where he had to improvise, but this was different. Risking his own life and limb was simple, really. Bravery was easy when you valued your cause more highly than your continued existence. But last night, everything in his world had changed. He now had two people depending on him in wholly new ways, and all he could think about was how he really had no idea how to keep from mangling the fragile peace he'd forged with this girl last night. Or what would happen if he did upset their balance somehow.

After what seemed to him an uncomfortable pause, Snape said diffidently, "I don't suppose you know much about Potter's relatives? Where they might go on holiday?"

Hermione shook her head. "He has an Aunt-- the one he, er, blew up that one time. But I have no idea where she lived. Harry didn't talk about any of them very much, really."

No, Snape supposed he wouldn't, given the evidence of mistreatment he'd uncovered in the short time they'd been here.

Hermione pulled out a chair and sat at the table. "Perhaps they're merely taking a long weekend. What day is it?"

A caustic retort sprang to his lips, but Snape stopped himself as he realized, belatedly, why she might not know. "It is Saturday morning, Miss Granger," he replied blandly. "When were you taken?"

"Thursday night. Or early Friday morning."

_Ah. Not a great deal of time captive. But enough._

"You will have to tell me the _fascinating_ story of what idiotic nonsense you three were up to, to allow yourselves to be taken prisoner. But it can wait until you've eaten, I think."

She made no reply. He pulled out eggs and butter, then turned to the cabinets, quickly locating a frying pan and a mixing bowl. He began breaking eggs into the bowl, with the same easy efficiency he used preparing potions ingredients. As he worked, he was at first relieved Miss Granger was holding her peace. But before long the girl's silent gaze began to annoy him. And Potter's eyes, so wide and sad, looking at them both.

To cover his discomfiture, Snape said, "I used to make passable French Toast. Or I can scramble some eggs. Do you have a preference, Miss Granger?"

"No, sir."

Damn. Miss Granger, he was well aware, had a dozen opinions on every conceivable subject. For her to be this uncharacteristically subdued was unnatural. Was she frightened of him? She had not seemed so last night. But he had killed their beloved headmaster scant weeks ago. Or were the night's other events, the ones he had not personally witnessed but could guess all too well, finally coming back to her? Just as the silence grew unbearable, he fell back once again on his professorial persona, firing questions at her while he busied himself preparing their meal.

"Where were you captured, Miss Granger?"

"I thought we weren't going to discuss it until after breakfast."

"Feel free to substitute a different topic, after you answer my question. Where were you?"

"In the wood on the far side of Godric's Hollow." At his sharp look, she added, a little defiantly, "Sir."

He gave her a bit of time to start a new topic. When she didn't, he continued carelessly, "Lovely time of year for an excursion through the woods. It's not as if the entirety of the Dark Lord's rapidly growing army isn't searching everywhere for Potter, at least, if not his idiot friends."

"It was hardly a vacation, or a-- a lark, Professor."

"Really? What, then, possessed you, if not a sudden desire to take in the scenery? And _there_, of all places?"

"We were... looking for something. And trying to stay well away from Voldemort's strongholds."

Snape flinched slightly at the use of the name, but he did not comment on it. Instead he said, "And you succeeded so well. For what were you looking? Your sanity, perhaps?"

"I can't tell you that, sir." She had until then kept her eyes firmly fixed on her folded hands on the table in front of her, but now as she spoke she glanced down at the boy sitting between them on the floor.

_Of course. Potter had probably sworn them all to secrecy. Wonderful._

"Come now, Miss Granger. You should have reasoned out by now that Albus Dumbledore gave us each a task to perform. Thanks to you, I have utterly bollocksed mine up. The least you can do is give me information that will allow me to aid you in yours. You are searching for something, are you not? Some kind of artifact that will aid the Order?"

The flicker in her eyes, caught out of the corner of his as he nonchalantly turned a perfectly golden brown piece of french toast in the frying pan told him everything he needed to know. But something else was tugging at him now. The way she was starting to pick at a scab on her left hand, in a compulsive and self-destructive manner totally unlike her. He had a fairly good idea what was troubling her. But he forced himself to continue his relentless questioning.

"And what happened to you, other than that your holiday was so cruelly interrupted?"

"I... don't wish to discuss it, sir."

Snape dipped another piece of bread into the egg mixture and set it in the frying pan. He knew he was going to have to lance her emotional wound cleanly if she was to have any chance at all to heal. Still, he hated himself as he wrapped his old Greasy Git of the Dungeons persona around him and sneered.

"Shall I hazard a guess, then? You and Potter and Weasley went off, completely unprepared and probably without so much as a plan. You then proceeded to get yourself captured. Your stupidity nearly spelled the end of all hope for the defeat of the Dark Lord. Your irresponsible recklessness--"

"Stop it!" The girl was crying now, her face blotchy but furious. "Stop it! You have no idea what happened! You weren't even there! We were neither careless nor irresponsible and Dumbledore wanted us to do this, and who the hell are you to even speak his name, and what happened wasn't our fault, wasn't my fault..." She stopped then, as if stunned to hear such disrespectfully vehement words tumbling out of her mouth.

Snape turned the next piece of toast, then looked directly into her eyes. "Just so, Miss Granger. You are in no way responsible for the actions and depravities of others. See to it you remember that, the next time you are tempted to wallow in self pity. We haven't the time for it."

Harry had crawled closer to her and now pulled himself up on her leg, laying his tousled head on her knee as if trying to comfort her. With a sob she picked him up and hugged him close, while Snape continued to finish breakfast preparations as if nothing at all had occurred. By the time he brought their food to the table and seated himself, he was relieved to see that Miss Granger had regained some color, and some of her bull-headed determination was present in her eyes. But along with the relief, he felt a sudden surge of rage. Maybe because he was still far too tired, he spoke his thought aloud.

"Children fighting men's battles," Snape said quietly, viciously stabbing at his meal. "I am sorry any of you were drawn into this, and sorrier still that damned prophecy was ever uttered..." He trailed off. His own part in making that prophecy known was hardly innocent.

Hermione paused in her feeding Harry to stare at him in shock, the fork midway to Harry's mouth. The boy grabbed the bite of toast off the end and shoved it in his mouth looking quite pleased with himself. She burst into nervous laughter. Snape smiled thinly as his rage dissipated, and he cast a quick cleansing charm on the child's hand. "I see his table manners are unchanged," he observed drily, eliciting another watery giggle from his companion.

"Yes, sir. And... thank you. I'm glad we're not alone in this, now."

It was on the tip of Snape's tongue to ask how they could be any _more_ alone than stranded in the home of the most Magic-hating Muggles on this earth, with no resources, no contact with the Order, and no real means of defense beyond the house wards should the Dark Lord come calling, but he held his peace. She might not feel alone, but as the only adult present, he felt the isolation keenly. All the drawbacks of solitude with none of the benefits. He was in hell. He quietly finished his breakfast.


	4. Chapter 4

In Loco Parentis 4/?

FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.

_A/N: Thanks as always to research-girl and sahiya for beta work. All mistakes remaining are ones I introduced after they'd seen it, or I willfully left despite their best efforts. And How is this experiment going so far? Well, way too much time is elapsing between post-able chapters, but that might be Real Life Drama more than anything. See my recent Live Journal entries if you're curious about that. Also I keep getting new ideas that require reworking of material I thought I had set. Thanks to everyone for their patience and the reviews. Oddly, I have almost as many reviews on this already as for "Lost Boys," though that is by far the better story._

* * *

Harry was a sticky mess by the time breakfast was over, as Snape had long since given up casting cleansing spells their direction. Hermione set him down on the floor and glanced over at Snape, who was considering them both silently with an odd, unreadable expression. Then he spoke, his expression shifting to something bordering on tolerant amusement.

"And now, Potter, as you are likewise a disgrace to your House, Miss Granger is going to instruct you in the finer points of personal hygiene." Harry looked blankly up at him, and Snape clarified, "You shall have a bath."

"Bath" was apparently a word the young child recognized quite well. He shot his old professor an aggrieved look only an outraged toddler could produce, folded his arms and said quite clearly, "No."

Hermione thought Snape would grow angry at the defiance, but the situation seemed to amuse him further. "Ah. Your first word, Mister Potter? And what a surprise it is. Nonetheless, you will bathe. Now." The tone was even, unusually pleasant for him, but left no doubt whatsoever as to its meaning. They both watched as the little boy thought that one over.

He looked shyly at Hermione, then at his toes. He mumbled something.

"What was that, Potter? I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that."

More loudly, the boy said, "You."

Snape gaped incredulously, and Hermione suppressed a grin. Apparently, Harry was, even at this tender age, shy around girls.

"Oh, Merlin's Blood, boy," Snape growled. "It's a little late for you to be developing modesty, isn't it?"

"Late, sir?" Hermione frowned, her amusement forgotten.

Snape hesitated a bit before he replied, "Mister Potter both is, and is not, himself. Physically, he is a child of some fifteen months. But I believe he retains memories of the past nearly 17 years, even though he lacks, at present, the capacity to understand most of them."

_Oh, God_. Hermione swallowed hard. She wondered if Snape knew this only from prior experience with the curse, but there was something about the way he was avoiding her eyes, and he had a kind of haunted expression he was not entirely successful in masking. Believe, nothing. He knew. She thought of the kinds of memories this little boy was carrying, and Snape's expression made entirely too much sense. She pushed the thought away in favor of action. "Let's get him upstairs, sir," she suggested gently. "I'll show you what to do."

In the bathroom, Harry began wresting ineffectually with the fastenings on his clothing. "Here, Harry. Sit down and let me get that for you." Hermione unsnapped the crotch of the sleepsuit and drew his feet and legs out of the opening. Snape turned on the tap and began letting the bath fill, checking the water temperature with his hand. He removed his robe and frock coat and rolled up his sleeves, looking dreadfully uncomfortable.

Hermione pulled the garment off over her friend's small head. Then she said reassuringly to Snape, "It's really not difficult, sir. Here, let me show you." She explained the charms she had used to transfigure and fasten the nappies, and he easily reversed them, all his imprecations about "foolish wand waving" to the contrary. She pulled up one sleeve of the faded blue jumper Snape had resized for her and tested the water temperature herself. Nodding, she rose and said, "Right, then. I'll leave you men to it."

She turned quickly to escape, as Snape had apparently recovered enough to cast a withering glare in her direction. But just before she closed the door, she heard him say softly, "Thank you, Miss Granger."

Hermione occupied her time exploring the bedrooms on the upper floor. One was crammed to the rafters with televisions, computer gadgets and electronic toys. Another looked so perfectly arranged and ordered it reminded her of a room layout from a museum, cold and sterile. And the last one filled her with sadness, just as it had earlier when she'd come in search of clean clothing. Small transfigured clothes were laid out on the bed, but it was otherwise as neglected as she had always suspected its occupant himself had been. Harry's room. She counted the locks on the outside of the door, and her hand itched for a wand when she noticed the cat flap at the bottom. She dearly wanted to hex something.

Before long, Snape emerged from the bathroom, holding a towel-wrapped Harry in his arms. The boy's hair was wildly on end, and he seemed in reasonably good spirits. As Snape, his relief obvious, handed him over to her for dressing, she noticed he had done a good job of copying her nappy design, even improving it a bit. Taking Harry into her arms calmed her a little. Snape stood leaning in the doorway, arms folded, watching her as she dressed her friend. Harry kept making silly faces at her, as if reading her mood and trying to get her to smile. She finally gave in and smiled back, hugging him close. Looking over Harry's shoulder, her smile faded. "How could they have treated him like this?"

Snape followed her gaze to the locks visible on the door frame beside him. "I have no idea, Miss Granger. But I do hope an opportunity for us to ask that question directly will present itself." His eyes glinted dangerously.

"But, sir, I thought you hated Harry." She had no idea what possessed her to say it, and seeing the odd expression that flitted across man's face in response, she was sorry she had said anything. He was silent, watching as she finished tugging a t-shirt over the boy's head, and she thought he would not reply.

But then he said, "My feelings towards the boy are irrelevant. No child should be treated thus."

Hermione picked Harry up and glanced over at Snape, who was regarding them both with troubled eyes. Gathering her courage, and realizing this might be the longest conversation she'd ever had with this man, Hermione said, "Last night. You said you'd... studied this curse."

Snape said nothing for a long moment. Then, "Yes. If it progresses normally, we should see periods of rapid growth every few days. Such periods are heralded by fever, lethargy, sometimes nausea and vomiting." His expression was unutterably bleak. Then he seemed to recollect himself, and the inscrutable mask was back. "For the moment, Miss Granger, that is all you need to know."

His tone brooked no argument, and Hermione felt helpless as she hugged Harry close to her. He seemed so fragile now, and his trusting smile made her heart ache. She knew Snape was withholding a great deal of pertinent information from her, and she found herself wishing for a few hours alone in the Hogwarts library to research the matter herself. Surely there had to be something she could do.

But the Hogwarts library was well beyond their reach. She broke the uncomfortable silence to change the subject with decidedly forced cheer. "Well, sir, now the only disgrace present is to the House of Slytherin. If you'd care to rectify that, I believe Harry and I can find some way to occupy ourselves."

Snape regarded her coldly, then sighed. He pulled his wand from his sleeve. Then he silently offered it, handle first, to Hermione, who took it gingerly.

"You demonstrated last night that you are more than a master for this wand, Miss Granger. I shall trust you with it again. But you must promise me you will use it_ without hesitation_ at need. There is no partial credit in matters of survival. Do you understand?"

She nodded. It felt oddly intimate, taking the wand now. Where last night she had been too exhausted and unfocused to give the matter any thought, she recalled now that witches and wizards were very possessive of their wands. To allow another to use your own was a singular honor normally only conferred on family or very close friends. She nodded. "You can count on me, sir. And... I am honored."

Snape nodded, his eyes unreadable. "Well, then, Miss Granger, if you will excuse me..."

She turned quickly and made her way down the stairs with Harry. On a shelf in the living room she found a few classic novels, bound in showily impressive leather and obviously never opened. She selected one of her favorites: A Tale of Two Cities. "Here, Harry. As long as you have to go through your childhood again, you may as well get some good out of it." He cocked his head at her quizzically. She grinned back at him and settled him next to her on the sofa and opened the book. He ducked his head under her arm and snuggled closer, then glanced up, as if uncertain. Hermione frowned and hugged him closer to her side, and he relaxed. She began to read.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

* * *

The cold water had a wonderfully reviving effect on the Potions Master. Shutting off the tap and toweling himself dry, he cast a quick, wandless cleansing charm on his clothing. That trick would not work forever, but for the moment it was preferable to searching the uncle's wardrobe and resizing something. The logistical calculations alone, to lengthen the much shorter and stockier man's pants while at the same time removing a good deal of the girth, made his head twinge painfully. He dressed in his somewhat stained white linen shirt and black trousers, reluctantly laying his frock coat and black robes aside. He pulled a comb through his hair, and examined his sallow face in the mirror.

Dark circles under his eyes brought to mind the mark on his arm, the one he had done his best to ignore while he'd been showering. He realized of course, that he was as good as dead, having left the Dark Lord openly. But then, he'd really been as good as dead since the night he had begged Dumbledore to save Lily, at any cost.

He shrugged. No use worrying about it. He would die when he was fated to, no showy prophecies or destiny to mark his way. His eyes were quite bloodshot, too, he noted. The result of inadequate sleep going back a number of years. He should probably attempt to get some actual sleep today.

His ablutions completed, he went downstairs in search of his two wayward students. He heard Hermione's voice as he reached the landing of the stairs, and he froze, listening, straining his senses to detect danger. "A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other..." _Ah. Dickens._ Snape smiled sadly to himself and relaxed. No danger there. Except perhaps, boredom, in young Mister Potter's case.

He listened to the quiet, calm voice for a bit, then came into the sitting room, ignoring Hermione's widened eyes at the sight of Severus Snape in anything but formal teaching robes. He would never teach again, of course. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. About anything, really. He tried to push the melancholy aside, but his habitual method of dealing with uncomfortable emotions did not work with quite its usual efficiency. So he added a sneer. That was better.

"You are attempting to broaden Potter's horizons, I see," he commented, holding out his hand for his wand. She handed it over immediately, and he tucked it into the loop sewn into the inside cuff of his shirt. "I suspect you are wasting your breath, but I do approve of the goal."

Snape felt the girl's eyes on his back as he strode to the back door and opened it, breathing in the fragrant air of an early summer's morning. It had rained in the night, and he could smell the damp as she rose and joined him, resting Harry in her arms against her hip.

"Is it safe, sir, to open the door? How far do the wards extend?"

Snape pulled his wand from his sleeve and cast a complicated revealing charm. The wards glowed a deep crimson for a moment, extending all the way to the back gate, and upwards as high as the highest point of the roof above them. Or so Dumbledore had told him, once.

She gasped as she caught sight of the wards. "They're beautiful," she breathed.

"They are," he said simply, remembering the woman whose blood had made these wards possible. Then he seemed to shake himself, to remember where he was now.

"You should continue with your reading, Miss Granger. We must not let this opportunity to educate Mister Potter pass us by." He tried to sneer again as he said it, but the smile was simply tired. He was distracted from his discomfort by the approach of a large barn owl. It crossed the wards easily and landed on the patio chair in front of him, three envelopes gripped tightly in its beak, the top one bearing the unmistakable official seal of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.


	5. Chapter 5

In Loco Parentis 5/?

FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.

_A/N: I should note that I have managed, through carelessness and not being able to bring myself to reread the last 2 books, to canon-shaft myself here. Let me make clear what happened in this alternate timeline: HBP says exams were "postponed." But later, it has the kids on the Hogwarts express home an hour after Dumbledore's funeral. I apparently remembered one detail a little more clearly than the other._

_In my version, Hogwarts continued in session, with exams to be held at an unspecified later time, maybe a week or two after the funeral. But Harry, Ron and Hermione left the school that night without a word to anyone, without raiding Dumbledore's office to get the books he left for Snape, and without receiving the items Dumbledore left them in his as yet unread will. It never made sense to me that they'd wait for the wedding to start their mission, anyway. But then, so much of DH made no sense to me. _

_At any rate, the canon mistakes are obviously mine. As are all the others. Thanks as always to my wonderful betas research-girl and sahiya. And thanks to everyone else for all the thoughtful readings and reviews._

* * *

Hermione watched Snape take the envelopes gingerly from the owl's beak, then fish in his trouser pocket for a coin to tuck into the pouch on its leg. "I've no treats for you," she heard him murmur, "but water could be arranged, if you wish." The owl hooted its approval and fanned its wings twice to make the graceful leap to the man's shoulder. Harry wriggled in her arms then, grinning with delight at the appearance of this strange new creature. But then, she remembered, he had always had a special affinity for animals, particularly his own owl. She wondered where Hedwig was, and if Harry was remembering her now.

She stepped back a bit to give Snape room to come inside. He flipped through the letters, then held one out to her. "Special delivery, Miss Granger." There was a certain sardonic amusement in his eyes. He continued on through the kitchen and opened the cabinets, smiling wickedly as he located an expensive-looking porcelain bowl Hermione was fairly sure Harry's aunt would not want used by an owl. She smiled too. He filled the bowl from the tap and set it down on the counter. The owl hopped down and began to drink. Harry watched, mesmerised.

Hermione moved to sit down at the table, shifting Harry to her lap. "Ron must have arrived safely at Hogwarts. But how did Professor McGonagall know we were here?"

"Hogwarts has ways of keeping tabs on its students," Snape answered, slipping his thin finger under the parchment to break the seal on one of the other letters. He read it quickly, then fixed her with a withering glare.

"Would you care to explain yourself, Miss Granger?"

Hermione looked down at her own letter.

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_As you left the school without leave and failed to sit your final examinations, you are hereby notified that you have been suspended from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

_We are aware that special circumstances may apply in this case, and so we offer you the opportunity to petition for reinstatement. Please arrange an appointment to discuss this matter no later than August 15th so that a determination of your status can be completed in time for you to secure all necessary books and materials and make necessary travel arrangements should your application be granted._

_Sincerely,__  
_

_Minerva McGonagall  
__Deputy Headmistress  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Hermione felt her cheeks burn. Harry looked from one to the other of them curiously, then turned his attention once again to the owl on the counter. It finished drinking and flew out the door. Harry sighed, watching it go.

Snape cleared his throat. "Skiving off exams, Miss Granger? You? Potter and Weasley, I can see, but..."

Hermione wasn't sure how to respond. It did not help at all to remember that she herself had thought their midnight flight from Hogwarts was a bad idea. She had only gone along with it because Ron and especially Harry could not be dissuaded, and she was not about to allow them to leave without her. "Well, we did have other things on our minds at the time," she began. Then she looked more closely at the open letter in his hand and let her natural outrage take over. No defense like a good offense. "Wait-- did you open Harry's letter? That's illegal, isn't it?"

"As it happens, Miss Granger, it is not," he said repressively. "I am, in fact, the closest thing to a legal guardian he has at the moment. And it is not as if he can read it in any case." He eyed her a moment longer, then turned his attention to the last letter. She watched as he slit it open and scanned its contents. His face grew a little more pale, and she thought she saw a brief flicker of distress in his eyes before his inscrutable mask slid firmly into place once again.

"Well, Miss Granger, today is your lucky day," he announced coolly. "As of about eight thirty this morning, I ceased to be the Headmaster of Hogwarts. So I will, regrettably, not have the pleasure of denying your application for reinstatement."

Hermione blinked, startled. "I-- you've been sacked, sir? But wait... headmaster? How could they, I mean..." She trailed off, not sure how to ask, or even what was safe to ask at the moment.

"Yes, thank you, Miss Granger," Snape drawled, his careless, even voice very much at odds with the emotion glittering in his eyes. "I was, in fact, aware of the circumstances that might seem to bar my elevation to such a lofty post. The Dark Lord, however, owns the Board of Governors by now, and he was, at the time, quite happy to see me installed as Headmaster."

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I didn't mean--"

Snape's voice was low and dangerous, but its intensity grew with each word. "Didn't mean what, Miss Granger? That you aren't shocked that the murderer of Albus Bloody Dumbledore himself should have been selected to succeed him?" His black eyes glittered with a madness she had never seen there before, even on the night Sirius Black had escaped the dementors' kiss.

Harry whimpered a little in her arms, his eyes wide with terror. Hermione hugged him closer and said quietly, "I mean I am sorry, sir. I think... you would have done a fine job."

Snape glared at them a moment more, shaking a little. Then the fight seemed to go out of him, and he slumped back in his chair, looking again at the letter in his hand. Without glancing up, he said, almost in a whisper, "I... forgive me, Miss Granger."

Hermione let out the breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding. Harry took advantage of her sudden relief to wriggle free of her grip and slide down to the floor. He approached Snape cautiously, but with the same determined expression she'd seen on his face so often-- scared to death, but doing something he believed he had to do. The little boy reached out slowly, his eyes fixed on Snape's. The man looked down and took a deep breath, then forced his face into an expression Hermione thought might have been intended as a reassuring smile.

"I did not mean to frighten you, Mister Potter," he said quietly, almost gently.

The toddler nodded solemnly, suddenly looking much older. Then the moment passed, and little Harry was doing his best to climb up into the lap of a very surprised and thoroughly nonplussed Severus Snape. The man didn't seem to quite know what to do, Hermione thought, as she watched him assist the little boy, then rest a hand on the boy's back as he settled himself on his new perch. Harry reached for the letter than had caused all the trouble and examined it closely. Snape straightened suddenly and took a closer look himself. "I'll be damned," he murmured, transfiguring a biro lying on the table into a self-inking quill. He handed Harry the letter itself, separating it from a seemingly blank piece of parchment that had been nestled behind it in the envelope.

He laid the blank parchment on the table, considered a moment, then began writing a list of what appeared to be potions ingredients, in the spiky scrawl Hermione remembered so well from her time in his classes. After a few moments, he sat back, watching the page expectantly. And then, another familiar script began to form on the page, in green ink.

_Severus? Is that you?_

* * *

Snape rolled his eyes as the words appeared on the parchment, just as he had hoped they would. Honestly, the woman had no subtlety at all. He penned back,_ If I weren't, I would hardly tell you._

_True. I shall have to trust you, but I know better than to believe you will do likewise. Ask your question, then._

_A pointless endeavor, Minerva. You could be under Imperius, or someone else entirely using a charmed quill._

_Yes, but I doubt anyone else would know how many galleons I have won from you in Quidditch bets over the years._

_As you very well know, I stopped keeping track of that after the advent of St. Potter the Magnificent. _He glanced down at the small boy in his lap with a wry grin.

_Only because you began losing so horribly_. Damn her. The woman even sounded smug in writing. He glanced up to see Hermione looking at him curiously, suppressing a grin of her own. He scowled at her, then back down at the charmed parchment.

_Cease, Woman. You are no longer my employer, apparently, nor I yours. What is it you want?_

_How are the children?_

Snape thought about how to answer that. If someone else were pretending to be Minerva, he certainly did not want this information in the wrong hands. _They are safely hidden,_ he wrote finally. Then he added,_ Potter is as childish as ever._

_So Mister Weasley informs me. This list-- do you really need all these items?_

_Some food and changes of clothing would also not go amiss. We have not seen the owners of the place where we have taken refuge. _

_Unless I am mistaken, they are on holiday in Majorca this week. I will see that they are secured. It would not do for someone else to lay hold of them. I trust you have adapted the wards?_

Good, she'd figured it out. Or someone had-- Snape still wasn't entirely sure he was dealing with Minerva, or Minerva alone. But yes, the Dursleys could be forced to give others access to their home. And, while Potter might still be safe if that occurred, the boy would quickly be without aid if he and Miss Granger were injured or killed.

Snape replied, _Of course. I fear, however, that Owl Post may not be a feasible conduit for our needs. And another problem-- both these children have been rather careless with their wands. _ Miss Granger frowned at him, but he didn't care-- thinking of their precarious situation made him extremely nervous. Wards or not, he was the only one with a wand.

_Yes, I have been in communication with someone about that. And Albus developed a contingency plan for transporting a large number of items securely. I will make the arrangements._

_As long as you are making arrangements, perhaps you could relieve me of my childcare duties?_ He wrote it casually, but his heart was hammering in his chest with the hope that someone else might take this burden and relieve him from duties so far beyond his abilities.

_Don't be ridiculous, Severus. You have Miss Granger. And, with your sudden departure, things are in quite an uproar here. I did secure your effects before your successor arrived. Oddly, he is having some difficulty opening his office door._

The sinking of his heart as he read her rebuke gave way to something much worse. Snape blinked in surprise. He glanced back at the other letter still in Potter's hands, which he had not read through to the end. He saw the signature. _Deputy Headmistress._ Still deputy. Oh gods.

_Who was named headmaster? _ he scrawled urgently.

_Amycus Carrow._ Her handwriting lost some of its perfection there, as if the admission were painful to her.

Snape sat back, stunned. Suddenly he didn't care whether it was Minerva or someone else on the other end of this communication: _You __must not__ let that animal into the school, Minerva._

_I had no choice, as you well know. However, except for his quarters and the Great Hall at mealtimes, he seems to be having difficulty going anywhere. The castle can be quite a labyrinth when it wishes._

The tightness in Snape's chest eased then, but only slightly. _He must not be allowed unsupervised access to students. Young females in particular._

_I am aware of his reputation. The rest of the staff and I have discussed it during the meetings he has unfortunately missed._

That would have to do for now, Snape supposed. There were still several weeks left before start of term. Turning back to more immediate needs he wrote, _If you cannot be spared, surely you can send someone else? What about Molly?_

_At the moment, I can't spare anyone in the Order. I am sorry, Severus, but I am sure you and Miss Granger can handle one small boy._

_One _growing_ boy, Minerva._

There was a long pause. Then the green script formed, a little shakily. _Yes, I know. Mister Weasley told me that, as well. Can Horace brew anything that might help?_

_Potions are largely ineffective. If you can send us Potter's medical records, including any Muggle ones that can be located, we will at least be able to prepare. _That was a lie; there was nothing to be done for most things but ride them out. And he already knew about the basilisk. But some other seemingly innocuous injuries could be fatal, if not diagnosed quickly enough. Given Potter's predilections, it couldn't hurt.

_I will see to it, _she replied.

There was a pause, then,_ Severus, may I ask why you had so many books on the Dark Arts on your desk? Madam Pince was beside herself-- many have been missing from the Restricted Section for some time._

Snape recalled the stack of books he'd found awaiting him, on his first and only full day as Headmaster of Hogwarts. He had been occupied with too many other details that day, and that night he had been summoned. _I assume Professor Dumbledore left them for me. I believe there was a matter he wanted me to research. Could those be sent to us also?_

_Very well._ The Deputy Headmistress' frosty disapproval came through clearly, even in this strictly written medium. _Anything else?_

Snape looked over at Hermione, who had been reading along without comment. Now she said diffidently, "If Molly has any books on raising magical children, or any other advice she thinks might be helpful..."

Snape snorted, but somehow, Hermione Granger's asking for a book made his own inadequacies a little easier to bear. He dutifully penned the request.

Minerva replied, _Done. Now, Severus, there is a limit to the number of times this parchment can be used. To clear it for another conversation, tap it with your wand and say "novum."_

There was a pause; then he read, _I am sorry for what I said to you when you were here, Severus. I know now that Albus trusted you to do what none of us could. He was always proud of you. So am I._

Snape stared down at the parchment, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in his throat. He finally wrote, _Don't mention it, Minerva._ Then he picked up his wand before she could write anything else and spoke the incantation to wipe the page. He looked at the two young people gazing expectantly at him and cleared his throat.

"Perhaps Mister Potter could do with another reading lesson. See to it, would you, Miss Granger?"

She nodded and stood up, holding out her arms to Harry, who was still perched on Snape's lap. Just before she picked him up, Harry turned and hugged Snape fiercely. Snape slowly and awkwardly returned the embrace, then said, "Here, Potter. Miss Granger needs you." He breathed a sigh of relief as she picked the child up and carried him quietly out of the room. Then he sat for a long time, staring down at the words, "services no longer required." But he was not seeing them at all.


	6. Chapter 6

In Loco Parentis 6/?

FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.

_A/N: Thanks as always to my hardworking betas, research-girl and sahiya. Thanks, too, to all you readers for your thoughtful reviews. This section was a good deal longer than usual, and I considered cutting it, as both of my betas had some time issues that prevented one from getting to the second half, and the other from going through it as thoroughly as she intended (though she still caught a disturbing number of missing words.) I've decided to go ahead and post most of it because I think there's not a better place to end it dramatically. So remaining errors are more mine than usual, and I would much appreciate their being pointed out in reviews so I can make corrections. Thanks for reading._

* * *

Hermione continued reading to Harry until it was almost time for lunch. Well, "reading to" was perhaps not the correct phrase. He was a toddler, unable to sit still very long, much as she could tell he loved the attention, and the contact. He made sure to sit as close to her as possible, and to squirm under her arm so as to have her arm around his shoulders whenever she could coax him back to the sofa. But he also hopped up and ran to the windows at every interesting sound, or experimented with new and death defying ways to climb the stairs, or explored the upstairs bedrooms, gleefully rooting through his aunt and uncle's wardrobe and leaving an unholy mess in his wake. Hermione indulged him in the latter. As far as she was concerned, Harry's neat-freak of an aunt deserved all this, and more.

Hermione was astonished how such a little boy could find the energy for this constant motion. The only restraint he showed at all was with Professor Snape. He would creep to the kitchen door from time to time, but he would quickly withdraw, as if he could sense the Professor's mood. Hermione glanced through the doorway a few times herself, noting each time that the man seemed not to have moved.

And so the first morning of her stint as babysitter passed somewhat exhaustingly, but without disaster. Hermione had just got Harry settled on the sofa with her after a moderately successful experiment in toilet training when she heard the loud "Crack" of Apparition in the next room. Setting aside the book and snatching Harry up into her arms, she peeked through the door to find Severus Snape kneeling down and addressing... a house elf?

"Thank you," he was saying with grave courtesy. "We can manage for now."

"But sir, Dobby wishes to help! Someone must look after Wonderful Harry Potter..."

Harry was wriggling in Hermione's arms, and she set him down just as Dobby caught sight of them.

"Dobby!" The little boy was not much taller than the elf, and he embraced the startled creature with great enthusiasm.

"Harry Potter knows Dobby's name?" Dobby gazed at the little boy with wide, adoring eyes.

"I am sure we can look after _Wonderful Harry Potter_," the Potions Master interrupted the reunion dryly. "But you must return to Hogwarts now, Dobby, and tell Minerva you have delivered our supplies. Surely she relies on you, and will need you close at hand."

Dobby wiped a fat tear from his leathery cheek. "Potions Master Professor can be counting on Dobby, sir." He disengaged himself from Harry and vanished with another loud crack. Hermione noticed the large school trunk lying in the middle of the floor. It seemed somewhat familiar.

"Why, that's my trunk," she said, catching sight of the brass plate engraved with her name.

Snape opened it with a flick of his wand and peered inside. "I don't recall there being quite so many books on the Headmaster's desk," he said, reaching in to pull a few out. Hermione took an ornate silver tray lying atop her favorite blouse and set it on the table. Immediately, it was filled with an assortment of sandwiches.

Snape transferred the books he had been thumbing through to the work surface and pulled an empty pewter jug from the trunk. "If you would be so kind as to fetch some glasses, Miss Granger, I believe it might be time for lunch." He glanced inside the jug once he had set it on the table and grimaced. "I hope you like pumpkin juice." Hermione supposed the time alone had done him good-- he was at least speaking to them and no longer brooding silently. The three of them sat down to their meal after Snape cast a quick charm to disinfect the little boy's hands.

"Dobby," Harry said frowning at Snape, as if miffed he had sent the house elf away.

"Yes, Potter. He was well known to me even before Albus took him in." Glancing over at Hermione, he added, "He means well, I suppose, but he was an absolute disaster with children, easily distracted and as likely to lead a child astray as to guard him." He glared at her then, as if daring her to disagree with him, but as it happened, Dobby's attempts to save Harry's life had made her all too aware of his shortcomings. She turned her attention back to the little boy squirming in her lap and displaying more appalling table manners than usual.

"He'll be back, I'm sure, Harry. Here, drink your juice. Carefully." Harry managed to slosh only half the contents of the cup down his front, wrestling with her guiding hand in an ill-conceived bid for independence.

"I do hope Molly sent along some books on dining etiquette," Snape observed with wry amusement.

Hermione pointedly ignored him, trying to mop up the spill with a dish cloth she'd brought to the table for the purpose. "Harry dear, chew with your mouth closed. In fact, just chew, period. You're going to choke, wolfing it down like this."

By the end of the meal, Harry was once again a sticky mess. Hermione was just about to timidly request the use of Snape's wand to clean the boy up a bit when Snape flicked said wand with a flourish and said, "_Accio_ wands!" Two long boxes rose from the trunk and landed on the table in front of him, redirected there at the last moment by another lazy wave of his wand.

Hermione leaned forward eagerly. Snape selected one box and held it out to her. "It would appear Professor Dumbledore anticipated, in some measure, your carelessness, Miss Granger. He has selected a new wand for you. Try it out."

She glanced at the note. She recognized Professor Dumbledore's immaculate, if tiny, script.

_For Hermione Granger, should some mischance befall her own wand. Use it well._

Taking the wand from the box, she felt the familiar warmth flow through her hand and arm. She grinned with sheer relief. "I hadn't realized how much I missed having my own wand," she said, casting a cleansing charm at Harry. Nodding in satisfaction, she turned briskly to Snape.

"And now, I think you should read to Harry for a bit, sir, while I change into my own clothes. We can put him down for a nap when I return, and then we'll have a look at the rest of what Professor McGonagall sent."

Snape acquiesced with a frown. "Do not dawdle, Miss Granger," he growled as she gathered a change of clothes from the trunk. "And you, Potter, come along." He waited in the doorway as Harry approached him, holding out his arms as if begging to be picked up. "Oh for Merlin's sake," he sighed, bending down.

"I'll be as quick as I can, sir," Hermione said. As she passed through to the hall, she saw Snape setting the boy down on the sofa, then seating himself and picking up the book she had been reading to Harry earlier. He looked a little startled when Harry insistently tried to wriggle his way under the man's arm. She held back a smile. "He did that with me, too, sir," she said, and he glanced up in some irritation. "I think he must have had a habit of sitting that way with other adults in his life when he was very small and they read to him."

Harry grinned over at her and nodded. "Book," he said happily. Then he applied himself once again to trying to insinuate himself under the Potion Master's uncooperative arm, as if this were some kind of game. Which, Hermione supposed, it would seem to be, to a toddler.

Snape sighed and allowed the boy to position himself as he wished, with Snape's arm around him and where he could see the book. "Yes, I had somewhat gathered that, Miss Granger," he replied loftily, turning a page.

Harry squeaked in protest at the page turn. "No! Read!" Snape turned a baleful eye, first on the boy, then on Hermione as she stood in the doorway, trying very hard not to laugh at his predicament. Then she sobered.

"Professor," she said quietly. "I don't think his aunt and uncle ever read to him like this. He looked very worried this morning with me, as if I might push him away." Snape just stared at her, unblinking, but she saw reflected in his eyes her own outrage at how Harry's relatives had treated him when he'd been this age. She turned away without a word.

She heard Snape's low calm voice saying behind her, "You will doubtless not comprehend a word of this, Potter, but if you will keep very quiet and still, I will read aloud for your edification. Now then..."

* * *

Hermione took her time cleaning up and getting dressed. For one thing, she thought Harry could do with a bit of male bonding time, even with Severus Snape. And for another, having to be so constantly on her guard, watching Harry's every move and trying to keep up with his boundless energy, had left her quite exhausted. She enjoyed her respite, knowing that when she went back downstairs she would most assuredly be "on duty" once again.

But when she returned to the sitting room, she was surprised to find man and boy sound asleep on the sofa. Harry had slid down to lay his cheek on Snape's thigh, and the man was resting his right hand protectively on the boy's upper arm and shoulder. He himself had slid forward on the cushion and stretched his long legs out, and his head was tipped back at a slightly awkward angle. She supposed he was too exhausted to mind, though he was sure to wake with a stiff neck.

She took the opportunity to study the two of them there. Harry looked so peaceful and content, and it struck her suddenly that in all the years she had known him, she'd never seen him quite like this. But it was Snape's face that had changed most markedly.

His face looked open, vulnerable. He seemed much younger, as sleep stripped away the cold self-possession and dangerous, fever-bright nervous energy that usually animated him. He also looked unutterably weary. She wondered how long it had been since he had got a decent night's sleep-- months probably. Perhaps years. She couldn't imagine the kind of stress he had been under, as a double agent serving the Order and Voldemort. He had been so cool and emotionless about Dumbledore's murder when she'd realized the truth, but she sensed now that he had not been unaffected by what he had done. It occurred to her then that when he'd cast the killing curse, Snape had lost the only one who had understood him and his mission well enough to help him hold himself together. She wondered what she would do, if he began to unravel now.

Well, she would just have to make certain he did not in fact unravel, she thought, as she retreated to the kitchen and began quietly sorting through the contents of the trunk. Clothing she gathered and took upstairs to Harry's room, smiling a little to see the tiny garments and wondering if Ron had worn them when he'd been little. She checked on the sleepers frequently as she sorted through the books, forcing herself not to open any of the fascinating ones on Dark Magic Dumbledore had left behind. She instead selected one of the books on child development Molly had sent and sat reading it in in a chair by the sitting room window until Harry began stirring.

Snape opened his eyes blearily as Harry first wriggled next him, then sat up. Hermione came over and lifted the little boy into her arms. "I've got him, sir," she said softly. "Go back to sleep."

He grimaced the way Ron sometimes did when she was bossy. "I was not asleep," he protested, though the dignity of the pronouncement was somewhat undercut by a huge yawn.

She wisely held her tongue, but transfigured the sofa under him into a daybed, and the throw pillow on the far side into a light blanket. Snape glared at her, growling, "Show off." But he swung his legs up and settled himself back against the throw pillows and suffered her to lay the blanket over him. She turned in the doorway with Harry in her arms, but his eyes had closed once again and his breathing was already evening out into sleep.

* * *

When he awoke, Snape was surprised to find a light blanket tucked over him, scratchy but warm. It took him a moment or two to remember where he was, and how he'd come to be sleeping in the middle of the afternoon. Then he heard Hermione's voice drifting through the open door from the kitchen. "That's really good Harry. Here, try this one."

He sat up, feeling better than he had at any time in recent memory. His neck was a little stiff, but a quick charm set that right. He rose and stretched, listening to Hermione's quiet running monologue: teasing, encouraging, bossing. He crept quietly to the doorway and watched his two young charges for a moment. Hermione had spread some paper and various Muggle writing implements on the floor, and she and the boy were drawing. Well, scribbling, in Potter's case. Though Snape had noticed earlier that the floors throughout the house were unnaturally, obsessively clean, he decided he had a reputation to uphold, so he cleared his throat, scowling.

"And what, pray tell, Miss Granger, is the meaning of this?"

He was quite gratified to see her jump at the sound of his voice, but less so, to see how Potter's small face brightened at the sight of him.

Hermione recovered more quickly than he would have liked, too, though he saw she had to make a conscious effort to relax. "Oh, hello, Professor. Sleep well? We were trying to be quiet."

Snape stepped over their papers and took a seat at the kitchen table, taking care to keep his face forbidding and unamused. "It was... adequate, Miss Granger. I take it this..." he waved his hand at the disarray on the floor, "is some arcane childcare ritual, of which you are an expert?"

She blushed furiously, but before she could formulate a reply, Snape found a piece of paper thrust in front of his face. "See!" the small boy said, giving a shy grin. Snape took the paper from him and examined it closely.

"What is this, Potter? Seems rather reminiscent of your potions essays..."

He cocked an eyebrow at the cheeky lad, waiting for the boy's typical petulant response. He was disappointed when the child just grinned more widely and said, " 'nape!"

Snape returned his attention to the paper in his hand, deliberately taking no notice of the quickly stifled giggle/ coughing fit which seemed to have overtaken Miss Granger at that moment. Yes, he supposed if one employed a good deal of imagination, one might make out a darkly scowling human figure in the seemingly random black scribbles.

"_I_ think it's lovely, Harry," Hermione said, preemptively cutting off any art criticism he might have felt inclined to make. But he found himself strangely moved by it, and looking at the little boy grinning up at him, he saw _the boy_, not his father, for perhaps the first time. Harry returned to his place on the floor and started another drawing. Snape sat regarding them both impassively for some time, admiring, though he would never admit it aloud, Miss Granger's patient encouraging manner with the child. He was sure he would never have managed it, and once again he found himself glad she was here.

Then he saw the boy stop suddenly and look, not her direction, but his, as if in some distress. Harry's cheeks were now flushed, and there was a slight glassiness in his eyes. Snape's hand shot out as fear gripped his heart-- surely it was too soon...?

Harry flinched violently away from the sudden movement, and Snape cursed himself inwardly for ten different kinds of fool. He'd seen this child's memories, knew that people in his aunt's family had never stretched a hand towards him in kindness. He stilled himself, then reached a hand cautiously to rest on the boy's shoulder, gentle and steadying. "Easy, Potter," he said, as reassuringly as he was able. He extended his other hand toward Harry's face again, brushing the back of his hand against the flushed cheek. It was very hot. _No_.

"Miss Granger, go upstairs and run a _lukewarm_ bath," he commanded quietly, catching Harry under his arms and lifting him effortlessly to his chest as he stood up. He shifted the boy to nestle against his left side and slipped his wand from the loop in his sleeve, casting a quick diagnostic charm.

"Fever?" Hermione gasped. "But he's been fine all afternoon." She was in motion as she spoke, already halfway up the stairs by the time he reached the hallway.

Snape knew the sudden onset of symptoms was typical of this curse. He had been expecting it, and the only consolation he saw was that if they treated this quickly, odds were that he would survive. This time. The curse had been designed to cause as much pain and suffering as possible before death, and that would not be possible if the victim died in early childhood from these fever-heralded growth spurts. But, over time, they would become more violent and painful. And deadly. Assuming they could keep him alive through all the other mishaps he'd suffered, the last few fevers as he attained his former age might well kill him. They had certainly killed other test subjects, though those had been much closer to Snape's age than Potter's.

But he thrust such thoughts from his mind and focussed all his attention on getting this boy through the next few minutes. The water was already splashing into the tub when he came through the bathroom door. Hermione was sorting frantically through the contents of the medicine cabinet over the sink. "If magical remedies won't help, what about Muggle ones? What effect would chemicals have on a magically-induced fever?"

Snape laid the boy gently on the bathroom rug and began to unfasten the unfamiliar clothing awkwardly. "It might be worth looking into later," he replied. "But, if memory serves, most Muggle fever-reducing agents are dangerous to small children, and we have no reliable means of adjusting the dosage. We will, however, have an opportunity to try it later, when he is a more suitable age." _If he lives_, he added mentally, but he did not speak the grim thought aloud. He cast the charm to unfasten the boy's nappy and lifted the now lethargic child into the cool water. Harry struggled, but his cries were weak, almost exhausted.

"Miss Granger, come and hold him, please. I need to check his body temperature again." She immediately knelt beside him and took his place supporting her friend's head above the rising water, while trying to keep the rest of his weakly wriggling form immersed.

Snape cast the diagnostic charm with a deft flick of his wrist, then relaxed slightly as he read the result. In answer to Hermione's look, he said, "It appears to be working. I can take it from here, Miss Granger. You should probably wait outside..." He reached down and spread his large hand behind Harry's shoulder blades, placing his other hand on the boy's shivering chest.

Hermione moved out of his way, but she made no move to leave the room. She watched in silence as he dipped a washcloth into the tepid water and bathed the boy's flushed face. She reached toward the tap and gave him a questioning look, then shut off the water in response to his curt nod. "Miss Granger," he began again, "there's no need..."

She opened her mouth to answer-- probably with some idiotic expression of Gryffindor loyalty-- when it began. Snape felt the small body begin to convulse under his hands, and he raised him more upright just in time to allow the boy to vomit without choking. Harry's bowels voided themselves at the same moment, and there appeared to be bright blood in both. As they watched in horror, his body began to warp and stretch, and he began to scream, a horrible, high-pitched, unearthly sound. Snape had heard many things during his time as a Death Eater, but the cry of the young victims of this curse had always haunted him the most. He had devoutly hoped he would never hear such a sound again. He closed his eyes and tried very hard not to think about how he would hear it again, often, in the days to come.

It seemed to take forever, but in fact, it was probably less than a minute before the boy slipped into merciful unconsciousness, and less than three before his body stopped its grotesque, unnatural growth. The bruises bloomed all over his body, then faded rapidly. Snape pulled the dripping child from the water, nodding his thanks when Hermione produced a towel to wrap around him. She pulled the plug to allow the filthy water to drain from the bath. They sat for a time in silence, Snape holding Harry in his lap and very resolutely not looking at her.

Eventually, Hermione rallied. Her voice shook, but only a little, and Snape was impressed, in some distant corner of his mind. "Should we run a warm bath for him now while he's asleep? Clean him up a bit? He might find it soothing..."

"It would do him no harm," Snape replied wearily, cradling the boy against his chest and still not looking at her. Though he had slept more today than he had in months, he felt drained now, and more shaken than he liked to admit.

"I can take care of it, Professor. If you like." Her voice was steadier now. Having something to do, some tangible way to help, seemed to calm her. But now he found himself unwilling to abandon the boy, even to the hands of someone much better suited to the task.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," he said. "I believe we can manage. If you would not mind laying out some clothing for him to sleep in, though, I would appreciate it." He watched the last of the brownish water seep down the drain, then performed a quick scourgify to remove all traces of filth. He put in the plug and began to run a clean, warm bath.

"All right." She rose and looked at Snape's bloodstained shirt. He glanced down and grimaced. She continued, "Lucky Professor McGonagall sent some clothes for you, as well."

"Indeed." He drew an unsteady breath, then looked at the boy in his arms, so very much changed, yet still recognizable as Lily's son. "How... old does he appear to you?" Snape said it casually, though he hated to admit his ignorance. Then again, that was why Miss Granger was here, was it not?

She frowned. "At least three, possibly four," she said at last. "Why?"

Snape shook his head. "I've never seen this much growth at once. Hand me my wand." It was lying on the floor in front of him where he'd dropped it during Potter's ordeal. She knelt and retrieved it for him, offering it handle first with a respectful nod.

Snape returned the gesture courteously and cast another diagnostic charm. "Three years, 5 months," he announced. "You may need to resize some of the clothing Molly sent." He tested the water temperature, then shut off the taps with a flick of his wand and eased the boy back into the water. She watched a moment longer, then left without a word, looking as shaken as he felt.

Snape found bathing a sleeping child was actually more difficult than bathing a playfully splashing one, but he managed it. Just as he finished rinsing the boy off and began looking about for a clean towel, Hermione reappeared with one in hand. He gratefully handed the boy over to her as he had earlier that day, then rose to his feet, trying to ignore the protesting muscles in his back and the stains on his no longer white shirt. He followed her to the bedroom and watched her dress the sleeping boy, making no comment.

When she finished, Hermione picked Harry up and held him close. "Is there anything else we should do for him tonight?"

"No. He should rest comfortably for several hours now." It was one of the small mercies, and perverse cruelties, of the curse. These calms before the next storm. Relief for the victim, lulling him and his caretakers into a false security that was shattered with each new episode. He forced his hands, which had balled into fists at the memories, to relax. He looked up to find Miss Granger eyeing at him with unfeigned concern.

"All right," she said slowly, as if only half convinced. More briskly, she said, "I'll take Harry down and put him to bed. You might consider another shower, sir."

Snape gave a wintery smile. "Am I a disgrace to my House, Miss Granger?"

She sniffed. "Decidedly so, Professor."


	7. Chapter 7

In Loco Parentis 7/?

FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Brothers, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.

_A/N: Thanks as always to research-girl and sahiya for long-suffering beta work. Thanks to them, and all the rest of you, for your patience while Real Life made writing difficult. This chapter went through several incarnations, and the last was not seen by my betas before I posted it. So remaining mistakes are absolutely no reflection on them, and I'd appreciate their being pointed out by alert readers._

_As many of you are discovering, I answer all signed reviews-- the more detailed your comments, the more I'm likely to say in my response. This is still very much a Work in Progress, so your kind suggestions are very helpful in shaping and improving this story. I am particularly indebted to ArithmancerProof this time, for challenging me to think more about Hermione and how she's a little more freaked out about all that's been happening to her than I've been showing. Also, Romulus, if you're reading this, thanks for your detailed reviews. If you'll sign in next time or leave some contact info, I will be delighted to reply._

* * *

Snape did not dare take long cleaning himself up, disgrace to his House or no. He'd seen the look in the girl's eyes as she carried her sleeping friend past him, headed for the stairs. Loath as he was to admit it, she'd maintained her composure well enough during Potter's ordeal. But he did not delude himself that she would continue so with the crisis past. So he washed and changed in record time, even for him, and made his way downstairs. What he saw from the doorway was more or less what he'd expected. Even so, he stood there frozen, torn between a desire to offer comfort and the uneasy awareness that he didn't have the first idea how to go about it.

She knelt with her back to him, gently stroking Potter's cheek. The boy lay in the low bed she'd obviously transfigured for him, as the cot would no longer do. She was trembling hard with the effort not to cry, but the hitches in her breathing told him she was not succeeding. Snape himself was shaken by Potter's first ordeal and all the memories it brought back, of a time nearly two decades ago when he had witnessed similar horrors while doing his Master's bidding. Some of the young victims of the curse had clung desperately to him back then, burning with fever or writhing in agony as their bodies grew in horrible fits and starts. But he had been unable to ease the little ones' sufferings much, even when no one was around to witness it.

Times had changed, but not all that much. He still hated feeling so damned inadequate. And though the reasons differed, the needs of others left him where he always been— playing an expected role, unable as ever to express his true feelings. So he took a deep breath, pushed his inconvenient feelings aside with the ease of long practice and advanced into the room briskly. Drawing out his wand, he murmured a specialized variant of _accio_ he had most definitely not learnt at Hogwarts and was rewarded a moment later by the appearance of two glasses and a bottle on the low table by the sofa. The girl started at his voice and looked back through red-rimmed eyes.

Snape avoided her gaze, preferring to reflect instead that apparently Potter's uncle favored the industrial/economy size bottles of alcohol. No matter; it would do. He poured equal, generous measures in both glasses and seated himself heavily. "Come here, Miss Granger," he commanded. She rose without question and joined him on the sofa. A part of him was distantly amused that his classroom voice could still command such instant obedience. He pressed one glass into her trembling hands. "Drink this. Slowly."

He took up his own glass and proceeded to follow only half his advice, gulping back two swallows in rapid succession. It had been a very long time since he had allowed himself to indulge in the anesthetizing properties of alcohol. It burned a raw path down his throat and into his gut, but it did nothing to relieve his sense of being trapped, of having everything in his life unraveling all at once, and he himself powerless to stop any of it. He took a deep breath then and tried to empty his mind as he had been taught. That helped a little. He took a more moderate sip and forced himself to relax.

"Did you conjure this, sir?" The girl's voice sounded faint and distant to his ears.

He smiled thinly. "No, Miss Granger. I simply summoned it to me; I was fairly sure there would be some in the house."

She took a first careful sip, covering her initial choking cough well. "It's not bad, as brandy goes, I suppose," she allowed when she could speak again. Snape raised one eloquent eyebrow; he doubted very seriously she'd ever drunk anything more potent than Butterbeer in her life. He was gratified to see her blush and avert her eyes quickly. He hadn't completely lost his touch.

But he might have lost his mind, because the next thing he heard come out of his mouth was, "You might consider a career in Mediwizardry, Miss Granger. You have an exceptionally strong stomach. You certainly acquitted yourself upstairs much better than I did at your age."

Her expression of pity then made him wish he hadn't said anything. "You— " For once, the girl was struck speechless, and the fact was not nearly so gratifying as he'd imagined it would be. She tried again, "At my age…?"

Reluctantly, he explained, "I was not much older than you are now, when I joined the ranks of the Dark Lord. And not long thereafter, I assisted him by studying the effects of the age regression curse."

She stared at him, then seemed to wrench her mind back to his previous comments, as if those were somehow more easily answered. "I—But I- I froze up. There was nothing I could do…."

Snape took the glass from her trembling hands and set it aside. "There was nothing to be done, Miss Granger." It was a harsh truth, but he did not deliver it in a matching tone. His voice was quiet, almost gentle. "Nor will there be, more often than not. But you kept your wits about you, and you did not force me to care for both of you at once. You have nothing of which to be ashamed." He did, of course, and he saw a flicker in her eyes— pity, but also speculation. If she hadn't yet guessed that he'd done more than study this curse— that he'd in fact been instrumental in creating it— she soon would.

But then her expression softened, as if she read something else in his eyes. He really was slipping. "I'm glad you were here, sir."

He shrugged, then stood abruptly, to get away from the disconcerting perceptiveness of her gaze as much as anything. "Are you hungry, Miss Granger?"

"No, sir." From her expression she seemed doubtful of ever being able to eat again, strong stomach or no.

"Neither am I. But we will do Potter little good, if we do not keep up our strength. Come." He led the way into the kitchen. "Leave the door open," he directed. "We will hear if he stirs, I think."

As they entered the room, the enchanted tray flashed and two steaming bowls of soup appeared on it. Snape flicked his wand at the mess of papers and writing implements on the floor and they arranged themselves into a neat pile in the corner. He crossed the room and took his seat at the table.

For a time, the only sound was the clink of spoons in their bowls. Snape had nothing approaching an appetite, but this was not unusual, for him. He forced himself to eat as he always did. It was no more difficult now than it had been on any day since the Dark Lord had been reborn and he had resumed his role as a spy. All right. He could do this.

The silence began to feel heavy, awkward somehow. Casting about for something to ease the feeling, his eyes lit on a piece of paper on the table. He reached over to pick it up and examine it more closely. Neat, thorough, and _color coded_, for Circe's sake. He looked over at Hermione in sardonic amusement. "Been cataloguing, Miss Granger? I shall have to see that Madam Pince is made aware of your interest in the library sciences."

There. That roused a little fire in her. Gryffindors were absurdly easy to wind up; so emotionally volatile. "I thought it would be useful to make a list of the books Professor McGonagall sent us," she replied with some asperity.

Snape returned his attention to the page, his amusement waning rapidly. All the books listed were exceptionally Dark volumes. Well, all but Your Magical Child by Meliffida Norwich. The girl was studying his face closely now, and he strove to keep his expression impassive. Very diffidently she asked, "Do you know any of these books, sir?"

"By reputation, yes; most of them. None of them is suitable reading material for a NEWTs-level Hogwarts dropout, of course. But needs must, as they say."

Hermione did not dignify that with a response. Instead she finished her soup and took her bowl to the sink to rinse it out. Snape cleared his throat. "Miss Granger, are you, in fact, aware that you are a witch?"

She paused to glare at him. "I don't mind doing it this way. If I've learned nothing else from my time at Hogwarts, I have become aware that magic does not solve everything."

Snape was impressed, though he was careful to let his face betray no sign of it. Some wizards and witches went their whole lives without learning that lesson, Muggleborns and Purebloods alike. He rose and followed her example, rinsing and washing out his bowl and placing it on the draining board with hers. "Indeed, Miss Granger. In that case, perhaps you would care to do a bit of light reading?"

* * *

After their meal, Hermione busied herself clearing the table, moving the enchanted tray to the gleaming work surface beside the sink. Snape stacked volumes to one side in some order intelligible only to himself. When she turned back from the sink, he set her the task of finding or transfiguring blank paper, parchment and writing implements for their use. "I don't care that they're easier," she heard Snape mutter, "I will not use a biro."

So Hermione conjured quills and ink, and erased the scribbles on the loose paper she and Harry had been using earlier. Then she watched her companion sorting through the books. Some of them made her feel wrong, dirty, just glancing at their covers. After some frowning deliberation, Snape pulled a dusty volume from one stack and offered it to her. "You may begin with this one, Miss Granger," he said. "Alert me immediately if you begin to notice any untoward reactions." She wasn't sure what he meant by "untoward," but the chill that ran down her spine told her it was nothing good. She was sure that if their situation were not quite so dire, he would not be condoning her reading any of these books. A few pages into the first one, Hermione began to understand why.

She already knew making a single horcrux was an abomination, and making multiples was exponentially worse. But reading about the various other kinds of dark artifacts that could be fashioned to extend one's life, or drain the life force of others for power or pleasure, was a level of evil she'd not even imagined. She shuddered as she turned a page, then glanced up quickly to see if Snape had noticed. He was absorbed in his own book, his mouth a hard, grim line.

She wondered if she shouldn't just come out and tell him all she knew. But Harry had been very specific— Dumbledore had said nobody else was to know their task. These books seemed evidence that Dumbledore had intended for Snape to put the clues together from them. What if he'd meant for Snape to figure out something Harry didn't know, as well? It was so like the old wizard, to keep different groups working at cross purposes and still have them part of some larger overarching plan. That, or perhaps she just needed so much to believe Dumbledore's plan was like that— more complex and subtle than she'd yet divined.

In any event, she was reluctant to jeopardize the plan in any way by telling Snape too much too soon. What if he missed something vital because his knowledge of their task made him prone to latch on to some bits of information and to pass over others? She wasn't about to take the chance. And she suspected Snape himself felt the same, for he had not yet asked her again.

Hermione found herself unable to focus for more than a few minutes at a time. Little movements would draw her eye from the evils on the page before her. So it wasn't long before she noticed that Snape was turning the pages in an odd rhythm-- too slowly and evenly to truly be skimming, but a bit too quickly to be reading. He glanced up and caught her quizzical look. "Surely, Miss Granger, you have _read about_ people gifted with an eidetic memory?"

Her eyes widened. Photographic memory. The ability to retain all details of the pages of a book, for instance, or any visual stimulus. The way a room was situated, or a potions worktable was organized, with all ingredients prepared and laid out. Though her own memory was quite good in its way, she had sometimes wished herself possessed of such an ability. "That must have come in very handy for you, sir," she said, thinking of his advanced Potions study, and the work he had done as a spy.

But Snape's eyes darkened at the compliment. "Oh, yes, quite," he drawled. "I can remember absolutely _everything_ I have ever seen." His eyes held hers, and her breath caught in her throat as she realized there were drawbacks to his gift, serious ones.

"Can you control it?"

Snape looked away, embarrassed, perhaps, or just uncomfortable with how much he'd revealed. "Sometimes."

He turned back to his book, and Hermione tried to focus once more on her own. Fighting down nausea, she made herself read through to the end of the chapter only by sheer force of will, reminding herself that Harry needed her to gain this information. But seeing the title of the next chapter as she turned the page, she rubbed her forehead, where a tension headache was beginning to take up residence. With a sigh she set her book aside. "I think I'll go check on Harry. And see if anything in the medicine cabinets might help a headache."

Snape didn't even look up. "You do that, Miss Granger. Bring down anything you find, though, if you don't mind. I seem to have left my headache potions in my other robes." If he noticed her double take at the dry but unexpected humor, he gave no sign of it.

She brought the bottle with her downstairs and handed it to him as she passed to fill a glass from the tap. Snape rose and joined her, grimacing a little as he read the label before tapping out two pills and filling his own glass with a murmured _aguamenti_. She looked out the window into the twilight, unwilling to return right away to these books, a fact she found both ironic and disturbing. Instead, she heard herself ask softly, "How much do you know about child abuse, Professor?"

The man went very still beside her, looking over her shoulder out into the gloom. Finally he replied, "Some people have been accusing me of it for years."

She couldn't argue with that— he had been a bully in class, verbally and emotionally cruel. And while she couldn't deny Harry had suffered more than his fair share of that from him at Hogwarts, there was something else. "It's just— you haven't been cruel to Harry since we got here, sir. And to my knowledge, you have never physically harmed a student. Does he even have access to the memories of your relationship at school yet?"

"Not consciously, no. But they are there nonetheless, under the surface."

"But are those subconscious memories enough to cause him to flinch away from you if you move suddenly? Besides, I've never hurt him, not like that. And he flinches away from me almost as much. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

Snape seemed to be weighing his words carefully before he replied, with deliberate carelessness, "I believe we've established that he was not well treated in this home, at any age. Are we coming to your point anytime soon, Miss Granger? I still have a fair bit of research to attend to."

"Can we reverse the damage now?"

Snape stared down at her blankly. "What do you mean, Miss Granger?"

Hermione paused, trying to put it into words, this feeling she had. "I'm sure you're well aware of Harry's faults, sir. He's always trying to take care of things alone, burdens a child, or even a friend, would normally share. And— he's reckless sometimes. It's as if it doesn't matter what happens to him, or what he does doesn't matter, because he's going to be punished regardless. And he's got this saving people thing. Like the only value he has is in what he can do for others."

Snape stared down at her for a long time with a closed expression she could not quite read. Then he said quietly, "Some people might find those admirable traits for a messiah, Miss Granger."

"But he's not—" She stopped, realizing in that moment, that if he wasn't now, he'd certainly been meant to be. That he'd been left in this environment for precisely that purpose. Looking into her companion's eyes, she saw him nod as he saw the penny drop for her. He knew— he'd known for a while. She was sure of it.

Taking a deep calming breath, she started again. "Not if those traits get him killed before he can do— whatever it is prophecy says he has to do." She saw the man's eyes flicker with quickly hidden surprise and went on impatiently, "Yes, of course I know about the prophecy. That just makes it worse— if Harry thinks he has some destiny to fulfill, it will make him even more reckless, and less likely to rely on people who could help him."

Snape was staring out the window again, his expression now openly troubled. "The experiments I observed suggest that victims of this curse respond to new experiences, positive and negative, in fairly predictable and normal ways," he offered. "But as they age, prior memories and experiences return to the conscious awareness. I do not think any small kindness we show him now could negate all that."

"But wouldn't it be worth it, for us to try?"

Snape turned to her, his expression closed once more. "I have no idea, Miss Granger. I certainly have no intention of mistreating him now, nor of allowing others to do so. More than that, I cannot promise. It may have escaped your notice, but I am not, as they say, 'good with children'. It is fortunate for us all that you are here."

It was on the tip of Hermione's tongue to protest, but she saw that a part of him was clinging to that belief, that though he was not up to the task, she was. She nodded. "I know we can't do anything to change the past. But it might make a difference now. To, you know. The war. Everything."

* * *

The girl retired for the night soon after, unable to force herself through another Dark Arts book. Snape returned to his own books, doing his level best to avoid thinking about the conversation with Miss Granger. He doggedly pushed himself through the longest and most evil of the books Dumbledore had left him, taking each new image of each page into his mind as a kind of penance. He'd once been a Death Eater in earnest; now he ingested the death and decay on the pages and wondered at the irony of it, that knowledge he had once actively sought out should now shake and sicken him to his core.

But he still preferred the constant sick feeling in the pit of his stomach to thinking on the little boy sleeping in the next room. Try as he might, however, he could not keep his mind from wandering back over what Miss Granger had said.

She was so earnest about it. To her, this curse was an opportunity to set things right. He would give quite a lot to set many things right, but he knew that in this case, while Potter might respond to kindness and even love in this second childhood, it would make no difference in the end. Nothing would.

Snape wished devoutly that he had never had that final conversation with Dumbledore. He knew he was uniquely qualified to fashion the boy into a formidable weapon, especially now that he had access to a younger and more malleable version. Potter had great natural talent and strength, whether from his parents or from his connection to the Dark Lord. Not that he would never admit that aloud, of course.

But he knew now that the boy was not destined to _be_ a weapon. Or if he were, it was more in the manner of Miss Granger's "Booby-trap." Potter had been raised from infancy to be sacrificed at the right moment. A pig to the slaughter? No, he realized, not a pig. A lamb. A willing sacrifice. Just as his father's inconsistently practiced faith had taught. A lamb to take away the sins of the world...

He felt a cold rage rise in his heart at the way Dumbledore had manipulated them both, and the impossible situation in which he now found himself. At least before, he could comfort himself that it was _Albus_ who had betrayed Lily's son, that he had not even known all the ways Dumbledore had molded and warped the boy under the guise of keeping him "safe"-- not until it was far too late. But now-- he would have to recreate all of Dumbledore's conditioning. Or at least, not undo it as the boy grew back to manhood. He'd often sneered about Potter, how everyone seemed to regard him as some kind of Wizarding Messiah— he had even said as much tonight. He'd had no idea, all these years, how right he'd been, and the thought sickened him. Turning back to the books, as loathsome as they were, was almost a relief.

He continued to avoid thinking about it as the next few days went by. He kept watch late into the night, using the truly distasteful and disturbing volumes left him by his predecessor to maintain his alertness. He would eventually doze off in a chair, only to wake, stiff and sore, when one of his charges woke in the night.

They both had difficulty sleeping through the night. Potter still had dreams lurid enough to give Snape himself nightmares, on the nights when the boy wasn't exhausted from another growth spurt. And Miss Granger— she had more courage and maturity than he'd expected, but she was still very young. Potter's transformations grew no less horrible to watch, for either of them, and even the relatively tame books he saw fit to allow her to read were unspeakably vile. Both experiences, and whatever had happened to her in the hands of the Dark Lord, continued to prey on her, he knew. She was intrinsically good in a way he had never been, but he was well aware how insidiously attractive Dark Magic could be. To not feel powerless, to be able to protect those you loved — he knew the temptations well. And while Hermione's nightmares frequently disturbed his own fitful rest, he was heartened by them in a way. Because it meant she was still intact— still resisting the lure of evil.

On this particular night, Miss Granger was weeping bitterly but almost silently. On previous nights he had been able to ignore it, and she had usually calmed herself within a few minutes without his intervention. But tonight she seemed more distressed than usual. He finally crossed the room to kneel beside the sofa, not really sure what he should do. Hesitantly he whispered, "Miss Granger?"

She sat up, wiping what he presumed to be tears from her face. He could not make out her features in this light, but her head was downcast, as if she were ashamed. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to disturb you."

Snape rolled his eyes. "Well, since I am, regrettably, no longer able to dock House Points for such things," he drawled carelessly, "perhaps you would instead indulge my curiosity and explain why you are crying."

"That's just it, sir," she whispered, and he could hear her voice catch as the tears once more began to flow. "I don't even know why." She began to sob then in earnest, and before Snape quite knew how it had happened, she was sobbing in his very awkward embrace, and he was letting her bury her tear and snot stained face against his chest.

He held her like that for a long time. Or so it seemed to him. He let her cry herself out, swallowing hard against his own emotions and trying to divert himself with the wry thought that he seemed destined to be covered in the various noxious fluids of children. He patted her back gently, a trifle stiffly, whispering soothing nonsense in her ears, words he knew were supposed to comfort children, like "Hush now," and "Everything will be all right." He was an accomplished liar, but that one made him cringe as he said it, because he could not see how anything could be all right at all. But he kept murmuring soothing words until she finally calmed against him. He offered her a clean handkerchief, winced as she blew her nose into it, and cast a wandless charm to clean and dry it before replacing it in his pocket.

"Go back to sleep, you silly girl," he said, and he was rewarded with a watery chuckle.

"Thank you, sir," she replied, releasing him to lie back down. He covered her with the light blanket, squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, and rose stiffly to make his way to the kitchen.

5 a.m., he read from the display on the coffeemaker on the counter. No point in trying to actually sleep now; Potter tended to rise much earlier in his current incarnation, curse him. And whatever equilibrium he had managed to rebuild overnight had been shaken by Miss Granger's childlike, clinging embrace. He felt the natural distance he'd always kept between himself and all those around him eroding as his two charges grew to depend on him more and more. Much as he cultivated the appearance of it, he was not a heartless man. He had always felt things more deeply than most, and he saw in Potter and Granger aspects of his younger self he'd long hoped were buried. Their fears and grief and guilt mingled with his own, making it difficult for him to push it all away and take up the mantle of guardian and protector once again.

But he knew he had to do so. He toyed for a moment with the idea of pulling the enchanted parchment from trunk where they had stowed it— he had always found Minerva McGonagall a steadying influence, if a frequently annoying one. But no. They might need it later, and he was not about to give in to such self indulgence, much less to admit to her how out of his depth he was. So he mentally pulled his customary aloof detachment around him like a billowing cloak, at the same time pushing all feelings inconsistent with his persona down into that place in his mind even the Dark Lord could not breach. Then he pulled the coffee tin out of the cabinet and went about making the excessively strong, almost sentient brew he favored, the one the Hogwarts House Elves had been forbidden to make him during term because Albus had been concerned for his health. Or the health and safety of students who crossed him while he was under its influence.

He took his mug out onto the patio and sipped the bitter black liquid slowly, savoring its heat and the contrast with the slightly cool early morning air. He was almost through the cup and feeling much more himself when a sound behind him heralded the arrival of young Mister Potter. Without raising his eyes he said, "Good morning, Potter."

The small boy mumbled something. Snape snorted. "Really, Potter, I had no idea you could be so articulate. Try it again. In English, perhaps?"

The cheeky boy moved into Snape's line of sight, grinning at him. Then he said, in a fair approximation of Snape's own cultured drawl, "Good morning, Professor."

Snape rolled his eyes. "We shall see, Mister Potter," he replied.

The day passed in much the same way as the previous ones. After breakfast he helped the growing boy do stretching exercises and calisthenics that had the added benefit of easing his own sore muscles as much as the boy's. They would go into the backyard and Snape would watch the boy run aimlessly, joyfully, then rush towards him, giggling, and jump up into his arms, always trusting that Snape would not let him fall. And indeed, much as Snape swore inwardly that next time he would not do it, he always caught the boy up safely in his arms.

After their morning exercise, (Snape resolutely refused to call it "play", even in the privacy of his thoughts) he would remand Potter to Miss Granger's care for the rest of the morning and apply himself once more to the books. Afternoons found him reading with, or tutoring Potter in some way, and eventually, the two of them would fall asleep on the sofa together. Miss Granger occupied the boy after his nap, leaving Snape free to snatch a few more hours' rest. And so they continued on this day until just after supper, when Snape was sitting down to read with the boy before bed. He frowned as he noticed the boy squinting at the page, then realized what it must be.

"So you weren't always blind, eh, Potter?" he said, pulling out his wand and casting a quick diagnostic charm. "But you certainly are now." He raised his voice to carry to the next room, where Miss Granger was doing the washing up. "Miss Granger? Whatever became of Potter's glasses?"

Hermione came into the room, drying her hands on a dishtowel. "I put them upstairs, in the top drawer of his desk, for safekeeping. Shall I go get them?"

Snape was about to reply when he heard voices outside the door, then the sound of a key grinding in the lock. In an instant he was on his feet, extinguishing all lights with a single flick of his wand. Hermione had her wand out almost as quickly, a fact which Snape heartily approved. She also moved to shield the boy, now a scrawny but curious five year old. He peeked around her back but kept silent, with an expression far older than his years.

They watched as the door opened, and they heard a man say, "Here, Dudley, help your mum with her bag..."

"But Dad, she packed a tonne..."

"I did not, you silly boy. Besides, it'll be good for you. Like, what did you call it? Weightlifting? Got to build you up for next season..."

Heavy sigh. "All right, all right..."

The hall light snapped on, and Snape saw three pairs of eyes widen as they registered the business end of his ebony wand. He gave them his most oily and dangerous smile. "Welcome home. Do come in. Now."


	8. Chapter 8

In Loco Parentis 8/?

FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Brothers, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.

_A/N: Thanks as always to research-girl and sahiya for long-suffering beta work. Any sins of substance or style are mine alone. And thanks to everyone else for reviews and encouragement. This is going slowly, but rest assured it would be slower still without your input. _

* * *

It would have been comical, Hermione thought later, the dumbfounded expressions on the Dursleys' faces. Would have been, but for the expression on Snape's face. Hermione thought she had seen the entire range of expressions that face could produce, at least those on the negative end of the spectrum, but she found now that she was mistaken. It was frightening, this trembling, barely controlled rage, and Hermione got a sudden flash of what Harry must have seen, that night on the Astronomy tower. Gone was the man who had been so solicitous of their safety despite his outward scowls and grumbling, the one who was beginning to respond to the affection of one small boy. In his place was a stranger, one who could kill without compunction and might possibly enjoy it.

"Well? Did you not hear me, or are you too stupid to follow simple instructions? Get. Inside. Now." The imperious voice that had caused a generation of Hogwarts students to obey instantly and without question had much the same effect here. Their bags sailed out of their hands and up the stairs, landing with a thump a moment before the door slammed shut behind them. The lights flared back to life, and the Dursleys' eyes widened further in horror. And Snape— Snape smiled.

Hermione felt Harry touch her leg as he peeked out from behind her. Glancing down she saw him shaking a little. His expression was a strange mix of the wide-eyed fright of a five year old, and the sadness, almost pity, of someone much older. She knelt to place a comforting arm around his shoulders, turning back to watch the family clustered there by the front door, and Snape framed by the sitting room doorway, his wand still at the ready.

"You," gasped out the woman from where she cowered behind her husband. Snape's smile— his horrible smile— widened.

"Ah, Petunia. You do remember me. How flattering."

_Remember?_ Hermione traded a glance with Harry, though she knew he was too young to remember yet, whether he'd ever known this bit of information. He looked as puzzled as she. But looking back at Petunia Dursley's face, so pasty and frightened, she could see it was true. She did remember Severus Snape.

Hermione was not the only one who saw it. Vernon Dursley looked at his wife, confused and more than a little hurt. "P-p-petunia?" Her hand tightened on his arm, but she seemed to have lost the capacity for speech. In any event, Snape did not give her time to regain her voice.

"Come. In here. Sit down." He stepped out into the hallway and motioned them irritably toward the sitting room with his wand, at the same time murmuring a spell to set the room to rights. "And Miss Granger, keep Potter well away from these people until I can determine what preventative measures we should take on their behalf."

"Measures, sir?"

Snape replied with an oddly amused and malicious gleam in his eye. "Yes, Miss Granger. We must determine whether or not these Muggles have been inoculated against the myriad diseases Potter might pass on to them in his current state. There are… vaccinations one can take, for some of them. Many are worse than the diseases themselves, of course." He smiled at Petunia Dursley, who whimpered a bit. "Still have that needle phobia, 'Tuney?"

Hermione frowned. She had no idea what was going on between Snape and Harry's aunt, but he seemed to be taking it uncomfortably too far. "Sir, please. There's no need to frighten them."

Snape glanced at her, and the amusement faded from his eyes. "_Accio_ medical bag." Hermione caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see an old fashioned doctor's bag rise from the trunk. As it reached his outstretched hand, he said to her blandly, "Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Granger. I did not mean to offend your delicate sensibilities. You may rest assured that I shall not harm these people in any way, as by, for example, failing to feed them adequately, or locking them away in a cupboard, or forcing them to work as my personal house elves for, oh, say, sixteen years, or— _failing to treat their various illnesses and injuries_."

Petunia Dursley flushed and looked away. Snape pulled a large roll of parchment from the bag and leafed through it. "I have here Potter's medical records. Apparently, the Headmaster made arrangements for Potter's condition to be recorded magically, which is exceedingly fortunate for us now, as we would otherwise have no idea that, for example, at the age of six he suffered a dislocated shoulder, nor that at eight he contracted and fought off pneumonia on his own, probably aided by subconscious magic…."

"He— he was never ill for long," Petunia interrupted, desperately. "And whenever he was like that, so many strange things would happen— we couldn't take him out of the house like that! What would people have thought?"

Snape looked up from the parchment to fix her with an incredulous stare. "What would people have _thought_, woman? That's all that worried you?"

He was interrupted by the overlarge young man, who had not taken his eyes from Harry throughout this entire exchange. Now he blinked, as if he had finally worked out a difficult sum. "Blimey, Harry. Is that you?" He stood up and glared at Snape. "What have you lot done to Harry?"

Snape glanced at him in surprise, quickly covered. "_We_ did nothing but rescue your idiot cousin from certain death. Apparently the Dark Lord thought it would be amusing to send Potter back to relive his childhood, or the few moments of it he intended Potter to have, before he killed him. He's a bit touchy about having failed to do it correctly the first time."

This explanation seemed to puzzle the young man still further. Hermione offered, "A week ago, Harry and I were captured by Voldemort." She noticed how Petunia Dursley flinched at the name, while her husband and son showed no reaction at all. _Interesting_. She went on, "He wanted another go at Harry, as a child. So he made him one."

Snape was rummaging again in the medical bag, and now he pulled out a large, old fashioned hypodermic. In his most pedantic lecture tones, Snape said, "One of the side effects of this particular curse is that it causes the victim to relive every significant injury or illness he has ever suffered. At such times, these illnesses can infect those around him and— are you familiar with the concept of disease mutation?"

The parents looked at him blankly, but Dudley said, "I have a computer game, where the aliens set a plague loose on the world. And it changes just as you come up with a cure. It— is it like that?"

"Very good, Mister Dursley," Snape replied, as if grudgingly awarding House Points. "As Potter grew up here, and as he was never taken for regular check ups or treatment, it is likely you have already been exposed to everything he has ever contracted and developed antibodies of your own for them. But he has been in our world for much of the past six years, and we cannot afford to take any chances. Petunia, would you like to go first?"

"G-go?" Her face was white with fear, and Hermione could see a sickly sheen of sweat on her brow.

"Why, yes, Petunia. I shall have to use my wand to cast a series of spells on you to determine the proper dosage and composition of the inoculation, which I will then administer through this device." He raised the syringe with an evil gleam in his eye. Hermione suddenly realized, in more than an abstract way, that this was a man who could cheerfully torture someone in a good cause— really torture, not just behave cruelly to students in a classroom. She wasn't sure whether to be touched or appalled that he apparently found Harry's upbringing at these people's hands to be such a cause.

Petunia seemed in danger of hyperventilating. "Vernon, I can't! Tell him! I—"

Vernon Dursley finally found his voice, and his courage. "How dare you come into my house like this, and threaten my wife and son with your disgusting abnormalities! I demand that you leave at once!"

Dudley looked pleadingly to Harry. "I know we were awful to you. But please, make him stop."

Harry moved forward and tugged at Snape's trouser leg. "Please, professor. Don't."

Snape looked down at the boy disbelievingly for a long moment, then lowered his wand and looked away. Hermione watched him struggle with himself for a moment before he said, "While it is a matter of complete indifference to me whether these people live or die, if they contract any illness from Potter, no matter how minor, I assure you it will not remain minor, for them or us. And if they spread it to the world outside these walls…. They must be inoculated."

"All right," Dudley said. "I'll go first. Watch, Mum. It'll be fine. You'll see." He stepped forward and looked up at Snape, who appeared surprised, and reluctantly impressed. "What— what do I have to do?"

Snape raised his wand, causing Vernon and Petunia to flinch. Dudley looked like he wanted to bolt, but he held himself still, waiting for direction. Snape said, "Just stand there for a moment, Mister Dursley." He cast a very complicated looking diagnostic charm, looked at the color and pattern of the cloud of light that formed above Dudley's head, then tapped the hypodermic syringe. It was suddenly filled with the same color and pattern of light as that above the young man's head.

"Roll up your sleeve, Mister Dursley," Snape commanded quietly. Dudley did so, his eyes fixed on Snape's. They stood frozen like that for a long moment, then Snape grimaced and tapped the hypodermic once again. It changed into a modern one, much smaller, but still glowing with the same odd light. He touched his wand to Dudley's arm. Dudley jumped slightly.

"Cold," he said, as if a little surprised.

"Yes," Snape replied. "A bit of alcohol to disinfect the site of the injection, and a numbing agent. You may still feel a slight pressure." He jabbed the needle into the boy's arm, pushed down the plunger, and drew the needle back out, all in one quick fluid motion. Dudley looked surprised again.

"That wasn't— er, thanks," he said. Turning to his parents, he said, "It doesn't even hurt, really. Mum? Dad?"

"They can remain seated," Snape said.

A few minutes later, all three Dursleys were inoculated, and Snape had conjured a cool damp cloth for Petunia Dursley, who had come close to fainting. Harry obviously hadn't exaggerated how much these people hated and feared magic. Snape stepped back and watched them through hooded eyes, his face expressionless.

Dudley looked up as his mother began to revive a bit. Glancing from Snape to Harry and Hermione he asked, "What now?"

Hermione looked at Snape, but he seemed lost in thought, and not inclined to answer. So she said, "I suppose we should bring you up to date. How much do you know about our world?"

Dudley said, "I've heard stuff. Or overheard it. And that crazy old man was here last year to get Harry. Said something about a war, and a dangerous wizard. I wouldn't have believed it, but, well…." He looked at little Harry, standing solemnly beside Snape. "He saved me from those— things, two summers ago. They made me so sick, and gave me horrible thoughts, and I — saw stuff."

Snape looked a little surprised to hear that. But all he said was, "Dementors. Yes. They were sent after Potter, and it was your bad luck to be nearby at the time."

Vernon Dursley roused himself to speak. "So— they'll be coming after you now? Those dementywhatsits, and that Dark Lord?"

Snape nodded. "They will. But until Potter comes of age, we should be safe enough here. I trust you are aware of the protections placed on this house which have persisted, despite your appalling treatment of the boy?"

Vernon traded a guilty look with his wife. "That old man who came last year sent us a few letters," he muttered.

Petunia added, "He said we'd always be safe, as long as we let Harry live here."

"Safe is a somewhat relative term," Snape replied. "And Potter is, as usual, making things difficult. His chronological birthday is still some weeks off, but his physiological age may or may not have caught up by then."

"And— what will happen then? If he hasn't caught up?" Dudley asked.

Snape shrugged. "We will either have a little additional time while the boy's body catches up to his age. Or the wards will fall while Potter is still effectively a much younger and more vulnerable child, and we shall have to fight off the Dark Lord's army to keep him safe."

Vernon Dursley was moving from frightened to angry once again. "Look, we made it clear to that old nutter when we took the boy in that we wanted nothing to do with your unnaturalness. This Dark Lord — he's one of your lot. He's your ruddy problem. You sort him, and leave us out of it." He sat back in a self satisfied way, as if he had just delivered an unanswerable argument.

Snape's expression had hardened further at the mention of the "old nutter." "I'm afraid that is not quite true. The Dark Lord will be your problem, soon enough." There was a certain disquieting satisfaction in his eyes as he said it.

When Snape offered no more, Hermione added, "Muggles and muggleborn wizards are a favorite target for Voldemort. If he gains power over our world, it's only a matter of time before he turns on this one. And you won't have any way to defend against him."

"Wow," Dudley breathed, looking sick.

"Indeed," Snape replied. "But you in particular will be of interest to him, regardless. He will come for you first. Not because you're Muggles. He'll kill all of them later. No, he will come for you first because he knows, you see. He's been inside young Mister Potter's mind, knows his memories, his secrets. He knows how you have treated a wizard child, an orphan like himself."

Hermione was surprised at that. Voldemort had been bent on killing Harry for as long as she could remember. But something in Snape's eyes told her this was absolute truth, and that, at least in this, Snape and his erstwhile master were in complete agreement about Harry's mistreatment. And she was grateful those eyes were not turned on her just then. All three Dursleys shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

"B-But what were we supposed to do?" wailed Petunia.

"He's her _son_, woman," Snape hissed. "The sister you professed to love…."

"And I did! I did my best to make sure he'd stay well out of your world, away from all this! How dare you judge me, Severus Snape! I know how you've treated Lily's son all these years, too! Harry's told us all about you, never knowing I knew. But it's hardly a common name is it? Even among your vile, abnormal people."

Snape raised his wand then, and Hermione could only watch helplessly. But before Snape could cast anything, a small boy was interposing his body between the tall wizard and the cowering woman on the sofa. In a soft quavering voice, Harry met Snape's eyes and said, "N-no."

They stood frozen like that for what seemed to Hermione an age, the black eyes glittering with malice and disbelief, the green ones clear and frightened. Then Snape whirled and left the room. They heard his heavy, furious tread on the stairs, and then a door slamming shut above their heads. Petunia began to weep silently, turning to her husband, who looked completely out of his depth.

Dudley huffed a sigh of relief, then said, "Thanks, Harry."

The boy smiled a little sadly. "Hey Dudley, this is my friend Hermione." He glanced over to her and added, "Can you take care of them? I want to…."

Hermione reached out and pulled him into a comforting hug. "Maybe we should leave him alone for a little while?"

Harry pulled away and shook his head. "I'm starting to get a headache. I need to be with him when— you know."

_Oh, Harry._ Hermione's eyes filled with tears, but she pulled herself together for his sake. "Want me to to carry you up?"

"Nah. I'm okay. Stay with them, and, you know, 'splain. You're good at 'splaining." This last was delivered with a wistful little smile, and Hermione swallowed hard.

"Sure, Harry."

He nodded and turned to go. "Good night," he offered the room at large before stepping through the doorway into the hall, his body moving a little more slowly and stiffly than it had earlier.

Hermione turned back to the family on the sofa, looking after Harry with varying expressions of puzzlement or concern. "I should warn you," she began, "about the growth spurts…."

* * *

Snape was in Harry's room gazing out the window, trembling with rage. He heard the door creak open behind him and turned to snarl something at Granger, only to see those frightened green eyes instead. He turned back to the window and said thickly, "Go away, Potter."

Instead the little boy came into the room and pulled out the chair at the battered old desk and clambered up into it, until he was kneeling in the chair, leaning on the desk so he, too could gaze out the window and down at the quiet street below. For a time, the man and boy looked out the window in silence. Snape slowly got control over his breathing, his rampant, embarrassing emotions. Finally he said, "You defended them. Her."

"Yeah," the boy said. "Been enough killin' I think."

"I would not have killed her."

"Looked like you might." The boy shrugged. "Anyways, they don't know how to be any other way. They've always hated magic, and that means me. Just the way it is."

Snape sat down on the bed, suddenly bone tired. "I'm sorry," he said, after another long silence.

The boy turned to cock his head quizzically at the wizard. "Thought you used to hate me," he said.

"I still hate you, Potter," Snape replied, but there was no heat in it, and the boy did not look hurt at the words. He just nodded solemnly and turned his attention once again to the quiet neighborhood below.

They sat for a while longer in silence. Then the boy's breathing hitched suddenly and Snape looked up, stricken. "Are you—?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Not bad yet."

Snape stood and opened his arms. "Come here, you foolish boy." He cast a cooling charm over them both and pulled Harry close, picking him up. "Better?"

"Yeah. Nice. Not so scary."

Snape closed his eyes. If this was all he could offer the boy, a little respite from the fear of being alone with the pain and burning fever, he'd do it. In a raspy voice he whispered. "We may be able to try some pain and fever reducers next time."

The boy snuggled closer. "Yeah."

Snape carried the child to the bed and sat down with his legs across it and his back against the wall. He cast another spell and Harry's clothes were replaced by a large, loose fitting nightshirt. As soon as he'd got them both settled, the convulsions started, then the screams. He kept up a running monologue of comforting, encouraging nonsense in the boy's ear. Even after Harry passed out and the screaming ceased, Snape continued to whisper until the convulsions and growth had stopped and the child had drifted into natural sleep. Only then did he fall silent and ease the larger boy's body from where it was splayed across his. No involuntary expulsion of stomach or bowel contents this time, thank Merlin, though there was a little blood trickling from the boy's nose. Snape cast a quick charm to remedy that. Then he stood, wincing a little at the stiffness in his back and legs. He cast the age diagnostic spell and frowned. From five to almost nine— another huge leap.

The bruises were already fading from the boy's face and neck. Snape went to pick him up, then remembered the interlopers downstairs. No, it would not do for them to continue camping out in the sitting room, would it? Coming to a quick decision, he gathered the child into his arms, cast a cleansing charm and conjured adequate bedding for the stained mattress, then settled him back on his own bed. Potter hardly stirred as Snape laid him down and pulled the light blanket over him.

"I'll be right back, boy," he murmured. He stood there a moment more, marveling at the expression of peace on the boy's face as he slept, so at odds with the traumatic events mere moments ago. Then he turned to make his way downstairs.


	9. Chapter 9

In Loco Parentis 9/?

FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Brothers, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.

_A/N: Thanks as always to sahiya for long-suffering beta work on this chapter. Thanks now as well to Wee Hob, listening beta extraordinare, who is once again contributing his ears and comments to the cause. Also his "Mom, are you writing? Get back to work." I appreciate their efforts more than I can say. _

_And thanks to all of you for sticking with this story and leaving such thoughtful and insightful reviews. _

_A/N2: I've added a little to the end of Ch 8 and have reproduced it here. I'll go back and edit Ch. 8 to match this between now and when I post Ch 10. There may be a slightly longer delay between this and the next chapter; though partially written, I have a ficathon deadline looming in another fandom. Buffy fans watch this ff net space for my 06 Nano Novel, which is being edited and completed for this year's "Summer of Giles." Thanks to everyone for your patience while I clear an almost done WIP away at last. I will be back here; I promise._

* * *

_End of Ch 8:_

They sat for a while longer in silence. Then the boy's breathing hitched suddenly and Snape looked up, stricken. "Are you—?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Not bad yet."

Snape stood and opened his arms. "Come here, you foolish boy." He cast a cooling charm over them both and pulled Harry close, picking him up. "Better?"

"Yeah. Nice. Not so scary."

Snape closed his eyes. If this was all he could offer the boy, a little respite from the fear of being alone with the pain and burning fever, he'd do it. In a raspy voice he whispered, "We may be able to try some pain and fever reducers next time."

The boy snuggled closer. "Yeah."

Snape carried the child to the bed and sat down with his legs across it and his back against the wall. He cast another spell and Harry's clothes were replaced by a large, loose fitting nightshirt. As soon as he'd got them both settled, the convulsions started, then the screams.

Severus Snape had over the years grown accustomed to enduring pain, emotional and physical. And shame and regret were old familiar companions. But these episodes with Potter were excruciating. He closed his eyes and just held on for dear life, wishing he could draw all the child's sufferings into himself. He, at least, deserved it. And that knowledge made the screams pierce his soul all the more deeply.

But now, all he could do was hold the child and wait out the seizure. He'd found, with other victims long ago, that hearing someone's voice seemed to calm and comfort them. So he kept up a running monologue of comforting, encouraging nonsense in the boy's ear. He could have been reciting potions recipes or historical timelines of the Goblin Wars, for all that the actual content of the words mattered. It was enough that he kept speaking, kept the boy focused on something outside himself. Even after Potter passed out and the screaming ceased, Snape continued to whisper until the convulsions and growth had stopped and the child had drifted into natural sleep. Only then did he fall silent and ease the larger boy's body from where it was splayed across his. No involuntary expulsion of stomach or bowel contents this time, thank Merlin, though there was a little blood trickling from the boy's nose. Snape cast a quick charm to remedy that. Then he stood, wincing a little at the stiffness in his back and legs. He cast the age diagnostic spell and frowned. From five to almost nine— another huge leap.

The bruises were already fading from the boy's face and neck. Snape went to pick him up, then remembered the interlopers downstairs. No, it would not do for them to continue camping out in the sitting room, would it? Coming to a quick decision, he gathered the child into his arms, cast a cleansing charm and conjured adequate bedding for the stained mattress, then settled him back on his own bed. Potter hardly stirred as Snape laid him down and pulled the light blanket over him.

"I'll be right back, boy," he murmured. He stood there a moment more, marveling at the expression of peace on the boy's face as he slept. Then he turned to make his way downstairs.

* * *

_Begin Ch9:_

* * *

Hermione was relieved when Snape reentered the sitting room. Harry's screams had been horrible, but the awkward silence afterward was almost worse. Vernon Dursley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his face a little pale. Petunia had her eyes closed and looked as if she might pass out again. Dudley just stared dully at the floor. All three started as Snape strode back into the room, completely ignoring the family and directing his words to Hermione alone.

"Miss Granger, I've put Potter to bed in his own room tonight. I shall move our effects there and transfigure a chair for myself. The guest bedroom across the hall should be suitable for your—"

"Here now," Vernon Dursley growled. "Who are you to be giving orders in my home?"

Snape paused to fix the man with a cold, slightly amused stare. "Perhaps you would prefer Miss Granger to take the master suite, your worthless son the bathtub, and the two of you this spacious closet underneath the stairs? No? Then be silent, fool. You try my patience any more tonight at your peril."

Hermione suppressed a slight grin at the shocked and affronted look on Vernon Dursley's face, but immediately afterward felt a twinge of guilt and pity. She had begun to see, in the minutes before Harry's attack had begun, that these people were more frightened and stupid than actually cruel, and that Petunia at least had really believed keeping Harry as far from magic as possible was the only way to keep him safe. She couldn't condone how they'd treated her friend, but she was beginning to understand it, a little.

Snape turned away, headed for the trunk in the kitchen. He pulled out his wand and summoned the medical bag and parchment containing Harry's records to him, and Hermione wished she hadn't allowed herself to become so distracted; she really had meant to look through them herself. But she could do so later; in fact, at this point, Snape might more readily agree to her reading those parchments than the Dark Arts books.

Dudley rose and said, "Um, long day. Come on Mum, Dad." He offered them a hand up, and Hermione wondered as she watched him how it was that he seemed to be handling the situation so much better than his parents. Perhaps the dementors had made him a little more able to deal with the realities of the magical world, or at least, those aspects of it that were not as bad as dementors themselves. She nodded at Dudley's murmured "Good night" and stepped past Petunia Dursley, who was craning her neck to see into the kitchen.

She found Snape in the kitchen using his wand to direct books and notes into the trunk, in full view of the disapproving glare of Petunia Dursley in the next room. She caught the woman's eye and was amused to see her avert her eyes quickly and leave the room. Hermione turned back to Snape. "May I help, sir?"

"Thank you, Miss Granger, but I believe I can manage."

There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of books stacking themselves in the trunk and paper rustling. Then Snape added, "He's fine, Miss Granger."

She hesitated a moment more, then turned and made her way up the stairs, looking in on Harry and suppressing a gasp at how much he'd grown this time. She stepped back out into the hall and nearly bumped into Petunia Dursley, whose arms were full of folded sheets and a blanket.

"I— thought you might need these."

"Thank you," Hermione said.

Hermione thought Petunia would just thrust the bedding into her arms and leave her to it, but instead the woman led the way to the guest bedroom and stripped off the immaculate sheets and bedspread. Hermione pitched in to help, and Petunia fixed her with an odd expression.

"Not using your _Magic_?"

"I didn't even know about magic until I got my Hogwarts letter. I grew up doing things this way."

Petunia said nothing more, but her disapproving frown seemed to soften ever so slightly. When they were finished, Petunia gathered up the discarded bedding and said, "Well. Um. Good night." Hermione nodded and watched the woman turn away with a determined, focused expression she suddenly realized she'd seen often on Harry's face, when he was bent on pushing himself through something he found difficult or distasteful— an essay, or a Triwizard Tournament task. Once again she felt a stab of pity for these people. The door closed quietly and she began to prepare for bed.

* * *

Snape had almost finished packing up the trunk when Petunia Dursley stomped into the kitchen, her arms full of sheets and pillowcases. She sniffed disapprovingly and swept past him into the small utility room off the kitchen. He heard the clang of a washing machine being opened and felt a coiled malice in his heart as he peered through the door at her.

She raised her head and shot him a challenging glare. "What do you want? Never seen a washing machine, I suppose?"

Snape felt like he was eight years old again, dirty and unkempt and not at all good enough to talk to two pretty girls in the broad daylight of a public park. That's how Petunia had always made him feel. With an unpleasant smile, he now drew his wand and levitated the soap powder and measuring cup, then carefully poured out the correct amount and dumped it into the washer. Another flick of his wand, and the machine began to fill. "I understand the basic principles involved."

Petunia Dursley stood there hugging the soiled bedding to herself, and Snape could see she was very near tears. "Why can't you just leave us alone?" she whispered brokenly, and Snape felt a very different kind of shame mixing with his malice.

"Believe me, Petunia, nothing would give me greater pleasure." He slid his wand back into his sleeve and stepped forward to take the sheets from her and load the washer by hand. When he turned back, he saw she was still staring at him in surprise. He regarded her for a moment, then closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the headache he could feel settling in.

"Go to bed, Petunia. I can see to this. I will be up for quite some time anyway." It wasn't quite an apology, but it was close as he could come to it. She turned away without a word.

He waited until he could no longer hear her steps in the kitchen and sitting room, then stepped back out and finished packing up. The enchanted serving tray and jug he left on the work surface beside the sink; everything else he closed into the trunk, then levitated it and directed it so it would follow him through the door and up the stairs.

Once in Potter's room, he set the trunk down at the foot of the boy's bed, laid a hand on the child's forehead to check for fever, and breathed a sigh of relief that he seemed well enough and sleeping comfortably for the moment. Then he flicked on the desk lamp and considered the room itself, for what he should transfigure into a chair, and where he should put it. After some deliberation, he decided the nearly empty wardrobe by the door would do. He put some effort into making it a bit more comfortable than the one he'd been sleeping in downstairs. He just wished he'd studied harder in Transfiguration, or kept up his practice more over the years.

He looked at the closed trunk then, but he wasn't up to any Dark Arts research now. Something about seeing Petunia Dursley again after all these years, and after knowing how she had treated Lily's son, had awakened some of his baser impulses, and he didn't feel comfortable reading such books while all that was kicked up in him. Instead, he pulled open the drawers of Potter's battered desk until he located the spectacles he'd asked Miss Granger for earlier. He took them back to his transfigured chair and sat, considering them, for a long time.

They were not ordinary Muggle glasses; he realized that as soon as he touched them. The magic in them was old enough to make his fingers tingle a bit at first. It figured, didn't it, that Albus would have made sure the boy received his father's old glasses, and that James Potter would have possessed such an heirloom in the first place: spectacles charmed to adjust in size and strength to the wearer's needs, and to be impervious to most damage, or easily set to rights with a spell like _reparo_. He suspected that if he slipped them on his own face, he would find they suited him every bit as well as Potter. It was tempting to try them out; years of reading by dim candle light and being exposed to the corrosive fumes of certain potions had left his eyes a bit the worse for wear. Even with the healing spells he cast on himself to counter the damage, he found there were some days when he suffered more than a bit from eyestrain-induced headaches, though those were hard to distinguish from the stress and exhaustion-induced ones.

But he would not trust any artifact that had belonged to James Potter, and in any event he was too proud. He held them in his pale hands, watching the light from the desk lamp reflect off the lenses. He'd hated these glasses, and the boy who had first worn them. He realized now that he might not have had quite the visceral reaction to the son if the boy had not appeared that first night to be a carbon copy of his father, right down to the spectacles.

It was hard for him to admit it to himself, how completely his hate for the father had caused him to misread the son. He saw now, that this boy had never wanted his fame, his unique destiny. And all the rule-breaking made a great deal more sense, knowing what it must have been like for Potter, growing up in this house, with these people. He was a survivor. Albus Dumbledore had been right, in that at least. He did have a great deal in common with the boy.

His hate for the father had given him reason to hate the boy. Not a very good reason, and as with so many things in his life, he saw now that he had been fighting the ghosts of events long past. But what reason could Petunia have had, to neglect the child who had been left on her doorstep, so small and helpless? Even he, for all his cruelty, would not have done that.

Perhaps she had grown to hate her beloved sister as much as he'd hated James. But her words came back to him then: _I did my best to make sure he'd stay well out of your world, away from all this! How dare you judge me, Severus Snape!_

How dare he, indeed. But could she really have believed that by crushing all magic from the child, she was somehow going to be able to keep him safe from whatever fate had befallen Lily?

He felt the old rage rising in him again, that Dumbledore had never known how misguidedly these Muggles were honoring his admonition to keep Potter safe. That, or he had not cared to intervene. These glasses were themselves good evidence that Dumbledore had at least known it was unlikely the Dursleys would take him for eye examinations.

But what would he have done, sixteen years ago, had he known? It was so futile to wonder about it now, or to feel guilty for what he hadn't known, or for what he had done in the mistaken belief that he had to crush, not the magic from Potter, but the father's arrogance. He hated that Petunia was right— he had done exactly the same thing she had, for far less noble reasons.

But his guilt over it now was equally futile, and there were far more serious things for him to feel guilty about. Not least of which was the condition of the boy sleeping across the room, suffering a curse that would not even exist if it had not been for him. Perhaps the boy would simply be dead now, if the Dark Lord hadn't had this curse at his disposal. But knowing as intimately as he did, what the boy would have to endure as it ran its course, he couldn't help but wonder if Potter might not have been better off.

Snape glanced over at the boy sleeping peacefully, his dark touseled hair poking out from beneath the blanket he'd curled himself under in a tight ball. Then he muttered a spell to extinguish the light from the desk lamp. He stared out into the darkness, emptying his mind and ignoring the ache in his chest.


	10. Chapter 10

In Loco Parentis 10/?

FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Brothers, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.

_A/N: Apologies first. My work on my '06 Nano Novel for Summer of Giles, a ficathon in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer fandom, delayed this, as I had warned it would. I wasn't expecting to be further delayed by falling in love while I was home in Texas right after that, nor that most of my waking energy would be taken up in parenting my Wee Hob and building something really beautiful with a very old friend. He is encouraging me to keep writing, and I do commit to finishing both these works in Progress, and beginning to post the sequel to Lost Boys by Christmas (as is fitting for a fic set at that time of year.)_

_Thanks to everyone for continuing to read, and for leaving such thoughtful and challenging reviews. Your comments are making this a much better story than it otherwise would be, and I am very grateful for that. They are especially important now because it is with much gratitude but a heavy heart that I bid farewell to betas sahiya and research-girl. Due to real life issues, both have had to bow out, so this segment has only been self beta'ed several times. If you'd like to volunteer your services, by all means let me know. Or if you're curious what beta work in general is like, shoot me a message. No obligation. We'll talk._

_Update 10-14-08: thanks to Lady Whitehound for her review, which offered some Britpicks and challenges to do some things better. The version below reflects some things she pointed out, and I am indebted to her for them._

* * *

Some hours later, Snape roused himself as he heard a soft whimper, then a moan. He crossed the room and laid his cool hand on the child's brow. No fever, but Snape would not have been surprised to learn Potter was nursing a serious headache. Glancing down, he saw the boy's eyes were open, glittering a little in the dim light coming through the window. "All right, Potter?" he rasped.

The boy struggled to sit up. "A bit thirsty," he replied, glancing at the door uncertainly. Snape was puzzled for a moment, then, _Of course_. How often had this boy been unable to come and go as he wished to at night? He thrust down his anger and conjured a glass, halting the boy as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and made as if to stand up.

"Hold on, Potter." Snape murmured _aguamenti _and the glass filled with cool sweet water from the tip of his wand. The boy's eyes widened, and Snape remembered that this Potter did not yet have the memories of the older one, or if he did, they were too confused and fragmented for him to make much sense of them. But mixed in with the wonder was a kind of relief, as if the magic confirmed for the boy that he was not, in fact, going crazy. He reached out and grasped the water glass in his small hand and gulped the contents down, then offered the empty glass to Snape.

"Thank you."

Snape nodded gravely. "You should go back to sleep, boy. Doubtless you're still a bit weak, after last night."

The boy nodded blearily and lay back down. Snape covered him. As he turned away, the boy's high, quiet voice stopped him. "Who are you, sir?"

_Your worst enemy. Nightmare in the flesh. Murderer of most of your family, real or, in the case of Dumbledore, emotional. Not to mention the instrument of death for the dozens of children the Dark Lord tested his curse on before you._

Aloud, he said simply, "Severus. Severus Snape." And for the moment, that was enough. He sat once again and watched the boy slip back down into sleep.

* * *

Morning found Snape dozing once again in his transfigured chair, the watery early morning light penetrating the thin curtains easily. The light, though dim, woke him, being so unlike the light that filtered in through the magical window in his dungeon bedchamber, or the heavily curtained windows of his room at Spinner's End.

He looked over at the still sleeping Potter and was reassured by the deep, even breathing. He cast his mind back over the events of the night, then realized that he really should let Minerva know her plan to "secure" these Muggles had failed utterly. He pulled the quill and charmed parchment from the trunk quietly, but Potter did not even stir as the lid closed rather more loudly than he'd intended. In the doorway he turned back for a moment, then swept from the room.

Once downstairs, Snape started the coffee brewing and transferred the wash into the dryer. The rest of the household was still asleep, and he was grateful for it. He was uncomfortably aware that the presence of three more people in the house would change the routine he and his two young charges had worked out. But nothing to be done about it, really. He took a deep breath and took stock of his own condition. Despite the previous night's ordeal and the lingering stiffness of his muscles from his having slept sitting up, he felt fairly well rested. If only his cobwebby mind could come up with what he should write to McGonagall. Perhaps coffee would help that somewhat.

He brought a steaming mug to the table and sat down. He scratched out a neutral greeting, wishing his penmanship were better.

_Good morning, Minerva. _

_Severus. Thank Merlin. I was beginning to worry._

Snape smiled thinly. _No reason for that, Minerva. I have no lack of companions to entertain me._

She caught his meaning at once, of course; he reflected that after nearly two decades he did have her well trained at reading between the lines of his sarcasm. _They're safe, then? We located them just as His servants did. Before either side could make contact, they had driven off in that mechanical contraption of theirs, and our side was fighting for our lives._

Snape frowned, hoping the 'we' and 'our' were not literal. Minerva McGonagall was a formidable witch, but she had no business dueling at her age, and with her weak heart. But he replied smoothly_, I do not know about safe. But they are here._

_Good. Arabella's house's wards are not nearly so strong as yours, but we can set up a base of operations there until we can arrange to get you all safely away._

That would not be for some time, Snape knew. In the meantime, _Minerva, I will need skelegrow and phoenix tears rather sooner than we had anticipated._

There was a very long pause now, and Snape could almost see his colleague's face, pale and frightened, as she took in the implications of his request.

_How old is he now, Severus?_

_Almost nine._

_That's very sudden, isn't it?_

_I have never witnessed anything like it. But then, Potter always has been exceptional. In one way or another._

_What does it mean?_

_I have no idea. He slept comfortably through the night. I suspect his natural magic has frequently had to ameliorate the effects of neglect or untreated childhood injuries and illnesses. It may be working to his benefit here, as well._

_I hope so._

_So do I, Minerva._

_I will send you the potions Horace has been preparing for you. And I will see if Professor Dumbledore's portrait can help us direct Fawkes to you. No one has seen him since… that night._

Snape knew exactly what night she meant, and why the last two words had been written so shakily, and after a noticeable pause. He grimaced and pushed the events of "that night" from his mind.

_I take it the Headmaster's portrait woke most conveniently after you told it what has transpired?_

_I told it a great many things, Severus. I suspect he is sorry he can no longer feign sleep with me. _

Snape felt his lips quirk upward slightly at that. Though the man himself was beyond caring, portraits could feel discomfort and regret, and this one certainly had earned more than his share of both.

_Very well, Minerva. Is there anything else?_

_No. I will send Dobby over later. Be well, Severus._

_Thank you, Minerva. You, likewise. _He laid the quill aside as Petunia Dursley entered the kitchen. She stopped dead as she caught sight of him at the table. For a second he considered simply ignoring her, but he could not resist baiting her a bit.

"Good morning, Petunia."

She sniffed disdainfully. "Severus." She busied herself pulling out a frying pan and a bowl, then the eggs from the refrigerator. Snape eyed her with faint amusement.

"We do have a less labor intensive way of preparing meals, if you would care to avail yourself of it."

She paused to glare at him. "I want nothing to do with your unnaturalness; is that clear?"

"Perfectly. However, you should know that when the raw ingredients are exhausted, you will be unable to procure more. Except by, as you say, 'unnatural' means."

Her lips tightened, but she did not reply. He watched her separate egg whites from yolks and scramble up the former. She must have caught his puzzled expression, because after a few moments she set the bowl back into the refrigerator and explained, "Duddikins' coach sent us a special diet, to build him up for wrestling. High protein, low fat and cholesterol."

He made no reply, but continued to watch as she scrambled the yolks and began to cook them. When they were ready, she transferred them to a serving dish and set it on the table, as far from him as possible. As she slid two slices of bread into the toaster, he offered, "There's coffee, if you would like some."

She turned to him, about to launch, no doubt, into another diatribe on his unnaturalness, before she saw him nod toward the perfectly non-magical coffeemaker. She relaxed slightly.

"Thank you." She set her toast on her plate, then went to pour some coffee into a garishly pink mug.

She turned and Snape saw her face go pale. He glanced over to see Potter there in the kitchen doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his unruly dark hair standing up in all directions. The boy flinched as the mug slipped from his aunt's grasp and shattered on the floor. Then he sighed and padded across the kitchen, carefully avoiding the broken shards with his bare feet. He tugged open the cupboard beneath the sink and emerged with a dustpan and whisk broom, and a towel. As Snape looked on disbelievingly, he began to clean up the mess.

Snape cleared his throat. "Potter." The boy looked up, flinching a little at the sound. Snape drew out his wand and vanished the mess. "You are not a house elf. Come sit down and have some breakfast."

He saw how the boy hesitated there, and he surmised eating at the table with guests or company was not something the eight year old Potter was accustomed to doing. Summoning every ounce of patience he said, "Whatever memories you may have, Potter, from now on you are to eat at the table at all times like the young wizard you are. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded and crossed the room to sit next to Snape, pulling his chair as close to Snape's as possible and casting some anxious glances towards his aunt, who had not yet moved. Snape ignored her, instead taking the plate of eggs, bacon and toast from the enchanted tray and setting them before the boy. A bowl of porridge appeared in its place, and a large glass of milk. He removed them as well. The child's eyes had gone wide, though whether from the magic or the quantity of food Snape wasn't sure.

"I realize this may seem like a great deal of food, Potter, but you have had an— illness. You will need to keep up your strength. Go slowly, but eat as much as you can."

The boy nodded and began to nibble at a bit of toast. As he ate, he kept glancing at the man next to him. Finally, Snape said, "What do you wish to know, Potter?"

"Er, who are you? And what's a wizard?"

"You are a wizard, Boy, as am I. Severus Snape."

"You seem like someone I should know, but…." The boy trailed off, unable to process the confusing layers of memory.

"You and I have been well acquainted in the past. As I said, you have been ill, and it has affected your memory. Everything will come back to you in time. I was one of your professors at Hogwarts."

There was a strangled sound now from Petunia, standing stock still by the counter staring at them. Snape sighed. "Come have a seat, Petunia. You're frightening the boy."

"As if you care about that," she spat at him, but she crossed back to her own place and began to eat, seemingly not noticing how cold her meal had grown. Snape considered warming it for her, then decided to leave well enough alone. She also seemed to be struggling for the words to ask her question, much as her nephew had been. But she didn't need to ask aloud— her expression, and the way she kept staring at the boy gave it away.

"He is almost nine, Petunia. As we told you last night, the curse is characterized by growth spurts and rapid aging, although I have not before seen jumps quite as dramatic as this. He now has access to all the memories he possessed on this date when he was this age, as well as some no doubt confusing recollections of himself over the last week. Am I right?" He directed this last to the boy, who nodded and looked a little relieved.

"Yes, sir." He was now eating his eggs and bacon with a bit more appetite.

Petunia seemed to have lost her appetite entirely. In almost a whisper she said, "Last night sounded— horrible."

Snape inclined his head and sipped at his coffee. "It was."

"How soon will he—?" She stopped, unable to make herself say it.

"A few days, perhaps a week. They should spread out a bit more as he grows older, but we cannot be sure. He is already reacting differently than anyone else I have ever seen."

She eyed him shrewdly. "And how do you know so much about this, Severus Snape? Is this a common _problem_ in your world?"

"No," he rasped. He took a deep breath and continued in a stronger voice, "I studied it, Petunia. For the Dark Lord. He never overcame certain side effects, so the curse was of little practical use to him. But he did have it at hand when the whim took him to try to recreate the events of Potter's early childhood."

Potter was looking at him, scrunching up his face in an effort to remember something, or to understand. "Don't try to remember now, Potter. It will come back to you soon enough. Just know that for now, you are safe here, and I will not allow _anyone_ to harm you."

The boy nodded and turned his troubled eyes back to his plate. Soon he pushed it aside. "I'm full, sir."

Snape nodded approvingly. "Stand up, Potter." The boy did so, and Snape transfigured his nightshirt into shorts and a t-shirt. "Come with me, Potter. We'll need to stretch those muscles a bit. Do you remember doing that yesterday?"

The boy nodded slowly. "Yes, sir." He glanced down at his bare feet and Snape grimaced. "_Accio_ shoes. _Accio_ glasses." Both sailed through the door a moment later, and he caught the glasses neatly, redirecting the shoes to the floor. He held the glasses out to the boy, who put them on. Potter grinned in wonder as they shrank to fit his face, then adjusted to bring the world around him into focus.

"Thank you, sir," he breathed. "Is this magic?"

"Yes, boy." He transfigured the small shoes into larger ones, and Harry sat down to pull them on. Then the boy jumped up, grinning eagerly.

"I'm ready, sir."

* * *

Hermione came downstairs to find Petunia sitting at the table picking at the remains of what looked like scrambled eggs and toast and casting furtive glances out the back door. Looking out herself, Hermione saw Harry running back and forth, and Snape standing looking on with his arms folded across his chest. She was struck by how such a forbidding stance still made Snape look more relaxed than she'd ever seen him.

She came back to the table and nodded at Petunia, then sat down and took a plate of eggs and fruit from the tray. "Would you like some?" she asked politely, noticing the longing look in the older woman's eyes.

Petunia sniffed and looked relieved when her husband and son trudged into the kitchen. "Dudley! Vernon! Here let me…."

But Dudley and Veron were already siting down and pulling the platters of eggs and bacon and toast from the tray, not having noticed, apparently, their sudden appearance. "Looks great, Mum," Dudley said around a mouthful of eggs.

Vernon grunted his agreement around a mouthful of his own, and Hermione suppressed a grin at Petunia's expression, spluttering and speechless. Then she glanced out the open door and noticed Harry standing very still and staring at the back fence. Snape was striding up behind him, drawing his wand as he went. She immediately pushed back from the table and ran to them, drawing her own wand as well.

What she saw as she drew near made her steps falter. She froze up just as she came even with Snape, who had his free hand on Harry's trembling shoulder. She felt the wrist of his wand hand on her upper arm, pulling her closer, then his voice in her ear. "None of this is real Miss Granger."

What she saw through a haze of smoke and fire, were ruined houses, dark marks floating over each one and casting an eerie greenish glow over the whole street. The front yards were littered with the dead; not only Muggle men, women and children, but people she had known for years in the Magical World: Minerva McGonagall, her dark green robes soaked with blood, her eyes wide and staring. Fred and George Weasley fallen together, only identifiable by the Weasley jumpers she'd seen them wearing back at school after Christmas break the previous year. And Ron— no. She closed her eyes and turned her head away, but the vision did not fade. Once again she heard Snape's low, even voice say, "This is not real, children. Back away slowly. Take hold of my arm, Miss Granger. Do not let go."

Hermione let herself be pulled slowly back, holding on to Snape's sinewy arm as to a life line. After what seemed an eternity, she suddenly found herself standing in the middle of a well-tended, if small, back garden, with the early morning sun beginning to melt the dew from the grass, wondering why the innocuous looking back fence filled her with such dread.

Snape gently disengaged his arm from her probably painful grasp and knelt down, turning Harry toward him. "All right, Potter?" he asked.

Tears were streaming down Harry's face. "I saw her," he whispered. "My mum. And a flash of green light, and she screamed—" He broke off, and Hermione saw Snape turn his face away for a moment, as if the sight were equally unbearable to him. Then he turned back and took the boy's chin in his long, surprisingly gentle fingers. Snape tipped the boy's face upwards, until they were looking directly into each other's eyes.

"Potter. I saw something… similar." He paused, and for a moment, Hermione thought he would say nothing else. But then he went on, "The Dark Lord knows we are here. The wards will protect us to some extent. But, should anything, or anyone get through them, I will not allow you to come to harm." His eyes flicked up to include Hermione in this last pronouncement. "Either of you."

The boy glanced almost involuntarily toward the house, where the other members of his family sat watching them uneasily. Snape sighed.

"Yes, Potter. I shall protect your worthless relations, as well. But you must all do as I say, without question. Spells that can project memories or imaginings worse than those drawn forth by boggarts or dementors are Darkest Magic. Neither of you are a match for it. Do you understand, Potter?"

The little boy looked back into Snape's black eyes and his face took on a determined expression. He said quietly, "I've fought him. The Dark Lord. Haven't I?"

Snape studied Harry as if for some sign of that Gryffindor arrogance he was always berating the boy for. But his expression softened as he seemed to find none of it. "And you will again, Potter," he replied in a low voice. "But not until you are older. When you are ready—" Snape stopped, but the boy nodded.

Snape nodded too and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Let's get inside. All right, Miss Granger?"

She nodded slowly, trying to process all she had seen. "The visions— they were different for each of us. Memories for Harry, more like nightmares for me. What did you—"

Snape cut her off curtly, "I do not wish to discuss it, Miss Granger." He would not look her directly in the eye. "Come along," he said to them both.

Once inside, Hermione watched in a kind of daze as Snape swept past the curious stares of the family seated around the table. He ushered Harry through the room with a guiding hand on the boy's shoulder, saying, "Potter, go upstairs and shower. I'll be along in a few minutes with a change of clothing for you."

Harry looked shaken and uncertain, but he nodded. "Yes, sir," he said quietly. Hermione heard his hesitant tread on the stairs, not at all the boisterous thumping run it had been the previous day when Snape had sent him up after their morning exercise. Snape appeared to take no notice as he turned to Dudley Dursley.

"You, young man. I shall need some clothing from your overstuffed wardrobe for Potter. Go get it, at once."

Dudley looked startled, but he stood up as ordered. "It'll be a bit big on him, but, sure. Whatever you say."

Snape sneered. "I shall of course be using magic to adjust the size," he informed the room with a smirk as his eyes fell briefly on Petunia Dursley. Then he and Dudley were gone and Hermione was left there with Petunia and Vernon Dursley, the latter with the forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. He glanced at it, then placed it back on his plate, uneaten.

Everything seemed very distant and unreal to her. She heard a man's voice, but the words didn't register. It wasn't until she felt a thin, bony hand gripping her upper arm, pulling her forward, that she wrenched her mind back from the horrors she had just seen. She jerked away, then saw Petunia Dursley looking at her. There was fear in the older woman's eyes, but also an odd expression— concern? Something about that seemed off, but Hermione couldn't quite remember why.

"I said, are you all right? Sit down, girl." Hermione allowed herself to be guided to a seat at the table. She realized she was shaking. "What—what was that? Out there?" Petunia cast a furtive glance out the back door.

Hermione looked too, but all she saw now was the perfectly ordinary looking wooden fence. She shook her head and slowly pulled herself together. "Everything's fine," she lied finally, her eyes on the polished table top.

"They most assuredly are not," Snape said from the doorway. She glanced up startled, to find him eyeing her with an expression she could not read. He continued, "It is imperative that everyone stay within the magical wards protecting this house. I am arranging a place for you three to go, as soon as you can do so in safety." His eyes briefly left Hermione's face to include the three Dursleys in this statement. Then he continued, "Until those plans are in place, none of us will be safe outside these walls."

Vernon Dursley was looking at Snape measuringly. "How safe are we inside?" he asked quietly.

Snape looked reluctantly impressed. "You have magical wards forged by Lily's love and death for her son, and strengthened by one of the most powerful wizards of our age. I have my wand, and Miss Granger is an— adequate Defense student." Hermione caught him looking at her again, and now there was a flicker of concern, perhaps at how she could not bring herself to react to the obvious aspersion. Turning back to Vernon Dursley, he added, "And we have the entire Order of the Phoenix mobilizing to come to our aid. We have only to hold out until they can get to us."


	11. Chapter 11

In Loco Parentis 11/?

FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Brothers, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.

_A/N: Thanks first to my two new betas, Whitehound and Betina. I'm grateful to them for their hard work, and any remaining mistakes are absolutely no reflection on them. This segment has suffered a bit by the distractions of NaNoWriMo and my losing my job near the end of that month (the two are in no way related.) I'm grateful now to have this to distract me in a different way. Feedback, as always, is most welcome._

_As during NaNo, I commit to continue writing something every day. I have 3 WIPs to clear away: two that are already posted and one I've been hanging on to until I had a full draft. But watch this space for the continuation of __A Father's Love__ in the Buffyverse, and the sequel to __Lost Boys__, which I hope to begin posting by Christmas. Anyone who wishes to offer beta skills on either, please let me know. I particularly need a tarot expert for the upcoming chapter of the Buffy story._

* * *

_Previously on __In Loco Parentis__:_

"_And we have the entire Order of the Phoenix mobilizing to come to our aid. We have only to hold out until they can get to us."_

* * *

Snape watched the various inhabitants of the house react to his pronouncement. It did not escape his notice that Miss Granger failed to react at all, even though he had come very near to complimenting her on her Defense Against the Dark Arts skills. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. _Damn it._ He pushed aside his concern as he always had, by finding something constructive to occupy him. "Is there any chocolate in this house?" he snapped abruptly.

Petunia and Dudley answered at the same moment. "No," she spat out witheringly, just as her son said, "Yeah." He looked from one to the other, waiting.

Dudley gave his mother a sheepish sidelong glance. "After last summer, I've been kinda keeping some on hand. I don't like it much anymore, now. But sometimes I have these dreams…."

Snape nodded, remembering how he, too, had lost his taste for chocolate ever afterward, after his own encounter with dementors. All he said, though, his face expressionless, was, "Dementors can have that effect."

Dudley lumbered up the stairs and returned a moment later with his chocolate stash. Snape nodded his approval as the young man pulled the blocks of dark chocolate from the plastic grocery bag in which he had wrapped them. "Almost medicinal grade," Snape noted, taking a piece, "or as close as Muggle shops can come to it."

Dudley unwrapped another bar, broke off a generous piece and handed it over to his cousin. The little boy was snuggled up as close as possible to Miss Granger, but Snape noticed with some concern that she was not responding even to her friend's presence. She didn't even stir when Dudley reached past her, saying, "Here, Harry. This'll help."

She did rouse herself enough to take the remainder of the bar when Dudley pressed it into her hands. The young man seemed to take no notice as he explained, "That old man sent a letter, after last summer. _To Dudley Dursley, The Second Largest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey._ He recommended this kind."

Snape took in Petunia and Vernon's expressions and realized this was as much news to them as to him. But it didn't surprise him in the least. "Professor Dumbledore was like that," he said.

* * *

Snape had hoped that chocolate would restore Miss Granger to her former insufferable self. But she remained unusually quiet and withdrawn for the rest of the morning. Snape was a bit preoccupied with Potter, who was more visibly shaken by the morning's visions. So he did not notice at first that the girl had slipped away upstairs. He was watching Potter on the floor in the living room with his cousin, both of them building with small interlocking plastic blocks, when it hit him. "Where is Miss Granger?"

Dudley looked up and shrugged. "Think she went up to her room after lunch. Said she wasn't feeling well."

Snape rose. "You boys stay here," he ordered, though they showed no inclination to follow him. He took the stairs two at a time and found her, not in her room, but in Harry's. His heart sank as he realized how much time she had had alone with those books, strewn all around the room.

She was consulting the three nearest her on the floor, copying out various facts and incantations on her parchment. Still color coded, he saw, as he watched her use a nonverbal spell to change the ink in her quill from green to red and continue copying. But they were not the bright primary colors he had seen earlier in her school notes, or even the list downstairs. No, this was a sick, putrid green, the color of dark pus and decay. And the red was more a coppery shade of dried blood.

He saw all this in an instant, frozen in the doorway, knowing he was on another threshold of sorts. He had no idea what to do in this situation. But he also knew he absolutely had to handle it correctly. The consequences otherwise were unthinkable. Before he was even able to formulate a plan, she turned her eyes to his. They were black and glittering with a malice he had never seen there before. And she smiled at him.

"Professor! These books are marvelous! I'm learning so much, and I've already found quite a few spells that might help us…." She thrust not a "few" but a whole sheaf of parchment at him. He did not move to take it, falling back instead on the calm, detached professional persona he had used from the time he was her age. Catching his expression, or lack thereof, she faltered slightly in her mad enthusiasm, and somehow that gave him a bit of hope. Perhaps it was not too late.

"Don't be angry, Professor. I just— I had to do something."

"Indeed," Snape acknowledged drily, though his heart was pounding all the while in his throat. "And have you discovered the mystery Professor Dumbledore intended me to solve using these books?"

"Horcruxes," the girl replied without hesitation, in a dismissive tone. As Snape gaped at her, still trying to wrap his mind around the cold horror of the plural, she continued blithely, "Tom made them, from artifacts connected to his family or the school. Like his diary and the ring. Here's that list. There may be more. We weren't sure." She proffered a single sheet of parchment now, and this time his fingers closed around it absently. "But don't worry. I can see how several of these spells could be adapted to destroying them, perhaps from a distance, and giving us a boost of power for whatever final battle he has planned. We might be able to do it without ever leaving the safety of these wards. Wouldn't that give him a nasty shock?" Her smile, like her words, chilled him through.

And Snape knew, in that moment, the price for which Miss Granger would sell her soul. Not having to go out there and face the horrors she had seen through the back garden fence. Not having to confront her helplessness, being at the mercy of monsters who reveled in her fear and their own cruelty. What did he, for all his knowledge of the Dark Arts and their seductive evils, have to offer her, that could begin to compare to the power and safety they promised?

But he knew he had to try. He took a deep breath and fell back, again, on sardonic humor. "It may interest you to know, Miss Granger, that contracting Bubonic Plague is not the recommended, nor the optimum way to gain knowledge and power over it."

"What? What do you mean?"

He extended his hand to her and helped her rise, steadying her as her cramped and stiff legs caused her to lose her balance. "Come with me, Miss Granger."

He led her downstairs, far away from the books, past the boys playing with their blocks in the living room and Petunia wiping down kitchen counters, obsessively removing non-existent stains. Once on the patio, he motioned her to one chair. He seated himself smoothly, allowing old habits of motion to confer the illusion of confidence, of power. But inside, he was trembling with the heavy weight of his responsibility. And, he suddenly realized, he cared for these foolish children; not just about living up to the trust they and Dumbledore had placed in him as a professor, but about them as individuals in their own right. He ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips and offered up a silent prayer to whatever gods there were, that he get the next few minutes, at least, right.

* * *

Hermione felt a buzzing in her veins from all the dark magic she had absorbed while reading. The effect had been described in one of the earlier books she had swept through, a warning of sorts she had not at all heeded. Now, she felt vaguely nauseated, and the way Snape was looking at her now, as if she were mad, or ill, made her feel a little worse. But it also made her a little more angry and defensive. He should have trusted her to read through all these books days ago, she thought, while he was in the room with her. Never mind that back then they had made her restless and unable to concentrate, had given her headaches and a sour stomach.

He was regarding her now with an expression she couldn't read— not pity, surely. Not from Severus Snape. Such a thing wasn't possible. Then he spoke in a raspy voice.

"The Dark Arts are unlike any other branch of Magic. Most other magics are, inert, if you will. Their use requires attention and focus, and powerful spells can drain the caster, just as physical exertion can sap one's energy and strength. But after a period of rest, one is unchanged, or perhaps slightly stronger from the exercise."

She nodded her understanding; she had gathered as much in her reading. He continued, "The Dark Arts are so dangerous because they do _not_ sap one's magical energy. They seem, in fact, to bestow limitless energy and power on the wielder. But what is Newton's First Magical Law, Miss Granger?"

Hermione could feel this power still throbbing within her. But she remembered her reading the previous school year— could almost see the page of her Defense book, could remember her excitement when she discovered Newton had been much more than a Muggle mathematician. She recited, "The Law of Magical Conservation of Energy states that just as in the physical world the total amount of energy in an isolated system remains constant, so in a Magical context the amount of energy available for any spell is that residing within the caster. The Wizard or Witch is, in this sense, an isolated system."

"Where, then, does the power for Dark Spells originate, Miss Granger?"

The horror dawned on her, and she wondered distantly how she hadn't realized it before, why she hadn't run from the books upstairs, it was so obvious. "From— others. It steals energy from other living things, without their permission. It even kills them."

Snape nodded. "That is why so many of the Dark Spells in those books require the lifeblood of something, or a sacrifice. Or even just an act that corrupts an innocent. There are a number of ways to steal the energy to power the spells. But even that is not the worst of it. There is an— intelligence behind much of the Darkness. Not a personal devil, no. But you yourself have experienced it. It promises you something you feel you cannot achieve any other way. And it obscures your reason just enough to get a foothold, make you forget, for just a moment, what you are really doing."

Hermione looked into the older man's eyes, and she saw now a strange naked vulnerability mixed with a guilt and sorrow so strong she wondered how he bore it. He took a deep breath and continued, holding her gaze, "Miss Granger. I was once as you are now. Drunk and slightly ill on the power studying Dark Magic can give one. And do you know what I did then, in the service of the Dark, Miss Granger?"

She wanted to flinch away from the terrible truth, but his eyes held hers, and suddenly, she just knew. "You," she breathed, and the horror of it pushed everything else from her mind for a moment. She felt as if she had been submerged in cold water. She gasped out, "You didn't study the curse. You made it."

Snape inclined his head slightly, but his eyes did not leave hers. They bored into her. "And why would anyone do something so very loathsome, Miss Granger?" he whispered.

And Hermione realized then that part of the buzzing was a kind of whispering, almost subliminal. It was urging her to use the new power she could feel coursing through her, to make something— something horrible. A new curse, perhaps, so disfiguring and debilitating that its victim would linger on in agony for hours before succumbing to it, or....

Even worse was realizing, as she did in that moment, that the urge to use the power was so strong, that the target did not really matter to her. Under the right circumstances, she might have cast it on her best friend, as soon as on her worst enemy. She could see herself casting it on Ron, or even little Harry. "What— what have I done?" she whispered.

"Nothing yet," Snape replied, his relief evident. "You recall that motion picture some years back— _Star Wars_?"

She nodded, puzzled.

"Well, much of its cosmology was vastly oversimplified, for it was, after all, merely Muggle entertainment. But it was correct about one thing. Giving in to the Darkness. If you use it to power anything, even in what you believe to be a good and worthy cause, it will entangle you in it ever afterward. I am a horrible man, in part, Miss Granger, because I have had to contend with urges and desires darker than anything you can now imagine. It is not too late for you, but you must not enter any further into the Darkness."

"But— I found—"

"_I_ will look through your notes, Miss Granger, and if there is anything useful contained therein, _I_ will be the one to use it. I, after all, am already damned. And I know the limit beyond which even I dare not go. But _you_ must stay away from the books, and from the temptation to use anything the Darkness suggests to you."

Her face fell a bit at that, but at the same time she was relieved. Snape studied her for a moment, then nodded, as if satisfied. "There still may be one matter you can research for us, Miss Granger," he said. "Accio Medical Parchment." A moment later it sailed through the living room and kitchen, to the startled shouts of the various occupants of those rooms, and through the open door into his hand.

"We will need to prepare ourselves for Potter's next mishap. Study this carefully, and let us see if we can pinpoint what remedies we will need on hand to counteract his next illness or injury."


	12. Chapter 12

In Loco Parentis 12/?

FEEDBACK: Oh yes. Concrit especially welcome. Also, after so long a silence on my part, abuse would be understandable and deserved. More constructive would be suggestions on how to bring the story to a close.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Brothers, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.

A/N: Sorry for the excessively long time between updates. This story is not abandoned; I am just getting to a place in my life where I can make time for it again. Thanks for all the reviews and other nudges during this time, especially the Valentine's Day Potter's Place 2010 Wishlist remembrance. Thanks finally to Whitehound and Betina for being willing to pick up their beta mantles after so long. I really appreciate their being willing to devote the time, not only to this section, but to trying to remember what happened in earlier parts. All remaining mistakes are, of course, my own.

_Last on "In Loco Parentis": Hermione has been seduced by the Dark Magic volumes in her trunk, and Snape has had to tell her some distasteful truths about Dark Magic in general, and himself in particular. She has been tasked with reading through Harry's records to see what is coming next for him. And Snape has been left with his own uncomfortable memories._

_

* * *

_

The next days were an exquisite torture for Snape. Somehow, telling the Granger girl his sins had unlocked that part of his mind behind which he had kept most of those memories carefully hidden. Intellectually he knew all his sins. He could number them better than the most pious of monks. But he had managed to go on living, and living with himself, by carefully compartmentalizing his various roles: teacher, Death Eater, Head of House, spy, betrayer of friends.

A few short days ago, some of the layers had been peeled away by his irrevocable decision to throw in his lot with Potter and his idiot friends. Now he found that even more of the protective layers which had buffered his old life were being stripped away. The result was that, even during the day, watching his young charges and his uneasy companions as carefully as ever, he found visions of the past superimposed upon his sight. Visions of a much younger Severus Snape, one who had all too easily been seduced by the attentions of a monster, as much as by the power he promised and the Darks Arts themselves.

He remembered the day he had first met the Dark Lord face to face. The older wizard had been handsome then, powerful and so seemingly wise.

"I hear that you are quite clever," he had said. "Sectumsempera. Tell me how you created that spell."

Snape began describing his youthful spell "for enemies" dispassionately at first, but gradually, under the Dark Lord's perceptive questioning, revealing not just the magical but the darker emotional considerations which had fueled the spell. As he finished, he glanced at the older wizard, seeking to gauge his reaction.

The Dark Lord was looking him in the eye. There was a small hint of a smile on his lips, and — approval? More than that. Respect. Understanding. A hope kindled then in Snape. So few people understood the finer principles of magic, content to use household spells to make their lives easier, but not to try to go much beyond what was already known. Snape had always wanted to explore, to see farther than anyone, to know not just how to cast the spells, but why they worked. Why he could work magic but the Muggles could not. Why everything was the way it was.

It had been a lie, of course. But the Dark Lord had possessed the rare ability to seem all things to all men; it was no wonder so many people had fallen under his influence, back before and during the First War. Then, he had seen an insatiably curious and needy boy, and he had encouraged him, given him just enough rope to hang himself. "Here, Severus. I have a few books you might wish to read. See what you make of them, and come back here in a week's time. We will discuss what you have learned, and I will teach you more."

The books he handed over had been relatively tame, compared to the ones Hermione had read upstairs. But they had led to others, each set darker than the last. Until finally, the day had come, as the Dark Lord had known it would, when Severus Snape, filled with venom and inspired by unspeakable evil, had begun creating a new curse.

Snape had never been exactly sure where the age regression idea had come from. If he'd had to guess, he thought his regrets about the past, about not being able to turn back the clock and make things right between him and Lily, had probably taken up a great deal of his imagination and dreams at the time. He knew intellectually, as everyone did, that a Time Turner could not be used to alter the past. But that did not stop him wishing.

And wishing, as he had so often found, led him back to the awareness of the frustrating limitations placed on him by upbringing and circumstance since childhood. Those memories, in turn, kindled his rage at all the pain he had suffered, all the humiliations. Until the day when he had closed a book on ways to fuel Dark Magic with acts that would corrupt an innocent, and— it had just come to him. A way to fuel the spell by involving the victim himself in the Darkness. The elegance of the solution of energy transfer had diverted him from the implications. And a part of him had reveled in how he could humiliate and hurt adults who had once mistreated him. Those were the people he imagined as he had woven the spell over a period of almost a week.

The Dark Lord had been pleased when Snape shared it with him. Snape felt the shame keenly now, at how proud of himself, how clever he had felt, never imagining the horrors to come. For of course, someone had to test the curse. On live subjects. During the months before Lily's death and the Dark Lord's disappearance, there had been no lack of test subjects: unlucky Muggles, wizards and witches captured off the streets of their home villages. Not all had been random victims, though. There had also been a number of aurors and others who set themselves up deliberately to oppose the conquests of the Dark Lord. All had been regressed, and Snape had been tasked with performing endless rounds of experiments on them and reporting his findings to the Dark Lord, not to mention fine tuning the spell itself.

But those were not the worst memories. Over the next few days, he spent his time trying to behave normally with his young charges. The irony of his serving as surrogate father to young Potter was not lost on him. The boy lapped up his distracted attention with such pathetic eagerness. At the same time, he played watchful mentor to a young witch who had taken her first steps down a road he knew all too well. All that time, he saw them watching him. Looking to him for guidance, answers. And all he could think about were the eyes of those other children. Near the end of the First War. The small test subjects whose vital signs and symptoms and performance on standard tests of intelligence and magic had been recorded dutifully on rolls of parchment by his assistant while he himself had cleaned them, fed them, changed them, comforted some of them. When the experiment had called for it.

He remembered the worst case. The child who had somehow lived through all the mishaps of her youth, all the illnesses. The Dark Lord had taken a particular interest in her early on, lavishing paternal affection on her, treating her to his uniquely charismatic personality, undermining her memories, turning her against her family, her comrades, her life's work as an auror, her sacred honor. He had only killed her after ensuring she knew fully all the crimes and depravities he had led her to.

A lesser man would have crumpled under the heavy weight of regret and guilt. But Severus Snape was made of sterner stuff, and he still had an overarching purpose in his life. He would bring about the Dark Lord's ultimate defeat. He would avenge Lily's murder and at the same time expiate his guilt for her death. He had been hanging on to this purpose for so long, he almost did not know how to do anything else. He took on the added pain now, of having to feel the regrets more keenly, knowing that these two children who looked on him now with such fondness and love would soon know exactly what he had done, the kind of man he had been. It took more courage now, to return little Potter's goodnight embraces, to force himself to speak normally and even somewhat kindly to Granger, knowing it would all be shattered soon. All the bonds he had forged in his life had been torn asunder by his old choices and mistakes, and this would be no different. But he owed both these children whatever they needed from him, for as long as they needed it. That, and his dreams of revenge, kept him going.

* * *

Hermione could not help but notice her mentor's distance in the days that followed. But in some ways, it was a relief. She had seen behind his cold facade these past few days, first catching flashes of the man himself, vulnerable, protective, loving and careful with Harry and to some extent herself. But now, she knew that all the evil she had imagined about him also lay there, under the surface. The contradictions confused her, but she was old enough to realize now that people were not always what they seemed, and that good and evil lay within all human hearts. She only had to look within her own heart now to know the truth of that.

The experience with the Darkness had shaken her to the core, and she was grateful that Snape's own preoccupations left him little inclination to do more than ask perfunctorily about her health and wellbeing. He was making more effort with Harry, she noticed, though she also could not help seeing now that each time the boy reached out to him in innocent affection, a flicker in Snape's eyes betrayed the pain it caused him. As it should, a part of her thought spitefully. He was responsible for Harry's condition, and all the terrible things that would happen as the boy moved through Snape's curse. If Harry managed to survive it at all. But another part of her, try as she might to avoid it, reminded her that she, too, had tasted the Darkness, and only Snape's intervention had saved her from creating something far worse.

She busied herself with reading Harry's medical scroll, as Snape had charged her. She found that Snape had, if anything, understated the extent of the Dursleys' neglect and abuse. But she found herself a good deal more angry with Dumbledore, who had not only known about it, but had allowed even more to happen to Harry after he had come to Hogwarts. Because there was no escaping the knowledge, now, that Dumbledore had known. The scroll in her hands was proof of that.

In fact, it was still growing. The last few inches contained the moment of the curse itself, and the growth spurts that had followed. The sudden fevers, the painful rapid growth, the symptoms which read like accounts of torture, were all there, each time resolving back to "Subject returned to normal health." The scroll was long and extraordinarily complicated to follow, and she was at first so appalled at the maladies her friend had suffered that it took her a few days to notice something odd about the new record, which should have been nothing more than a repetition of the earlier entries, but wasn't.

She was sitting in a corner of the living room, with the boys playing once again with their interlocking blocks, and Snape sitting watchfully by. The Dursley parents were in the kitchen at the table glaring through the doorway at times at them, but otherwise not inclined to interfere in their son's fraternization with his unnatural cousin.

Hermione was reading through the scroll, trying to identify the source of the feeling she had, that something was just not adding up. When she saw it, it took her a few moments to find her voice. "Professor, I think I've found something."

Snape looked slightly irritated as he turned her direction, but she saw him cover it quickly as he said, "What have you found, Miss Granger?"

She got up and held the scroll out to him. "Look at Harry's record, between the age he was a few days ago and the age he is now."

Snape scanned it quickly, though she knew he retained a perfect image of it in his mind already. He looked up at her questioningly.

She took the scroll from him and rolled it to the end. "Compare it with this." She found herself feeling the same acute nervous doubt she always felt, when he was judging her work on a potion or looking over her shoulder as she worked on a Dark Arts assignment. His face changed— he saw it too.

"This is impossible," he said slowly. He turned his eyes accusingly at her, as if she were the source of the impossibility. But there was hope in his eyes, too; the first she had seen in some time.

"What's impossible?" Dudley said, looking from one to the other curiously.

Snape was reading again, so Hermione explained "The curse is supposed to make the victim age more rapidly than usual, but stop and live through, in real time, all his old illnesses and injuries."

Snape added, rolling up the scroll, "But Potter is, as usual, an exception. He is missing all or most of them, due to the way he is aging so rapidly in each growth spurt."

"What does that mean?" Dudley asked. Harry was watching them all with wide eyes.

"I am not sure. Potter, come here."

Snape pulled his wand from the loop inside his left sleeve and cast a spell Hermione could not quite follow. He looked equal parts dumbfounded and amused at the result. "Potter, why are you the exception to every rule?"

The boy looked warily at him. "Is that bad?"

"Not at all. Potter, we may not need phoenix tears for you after all. Your unique metabolism and magical signature have combined to turn this curse on its head."

Hermione felt a rush of hope, but also a rush of that other familiar feeling: curiosity. "How is he doing it, Professor?" she asked.

Snape shook his head. "Possibly it's related to that phenomenon we noted earlier— his magic has been tuned to help him heal from illness and injury…." His face changed suddenly, and he cast another spell, which Hermione caught as some type of diagnostic one.

"Professor, what is it?"

Snape was frowning in disgust. "Dumbledore," he spat. "If I had known all this…." He stopped, but Hermione could see the depth of anger in his eyes. Harry saw it too, and he took a step back toward her, a horror dawning on his face.

"You killed him," the boy breathed. "I remember it."

Snape looked at him, obviously startled. He swallowed hard and said quietly, "Potter, you have a number of memories which are no doubt confusing…."

Harry was shaking his head, still backing away. Hermione put her arms around him as he reached her. "I can see it. You hated him."

Snape looked him in the eye. He hesitated a long moment, and the Hermione saw him come to some sort of decision. "Yes. And I hate him more now, when I know exactly what he did to you. But at the time, I was not killing him because I hated him, or even because I wanted to. I was following his wishes."

Harry looked at Hermione, and she nodded confirmation. He looked even more confused. Hermione hugged him close and said, "Just trust us, Harry. When you get back to your right age, things will make more sense. We won't let anyone hurt you."

Harry hugged her back, and she could feel his small body trembling. "I think I should get ready for bed," he said, after a long moment. He let go of her and mustered a brave smile, so like ones she had seen on him at an older age, when he was trying to be strong for someone else but was secretly terrified inside.

"I'll walk you up," she said, and he nodded gratefully. He did not look at Snape, or even at Dudley as he said goodnight and headed for the stairs. She looked back at Snape, though, from the doorway, and his face bore a deep sadness, and an even deeper resignation.


End file.
